
6feiss_I" 
Book 



Ejm 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



!^ou0el)olD (Bnition 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 




,^tinA/t^ J 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



Copyright, 1841, 1843, 184G, 1847, 1849, 1855, 1858, 1863, 1865, 1866, 1867, 1869, 1871, 

1872, 1873, 1874, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1878, 1880, 1882, 1883, 1886, 1891, and 1894, 
By henry WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW and ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright, 1882 and 1883, 
Bt HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & GO. 



All rights reservecL 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by XL 0. Houghton & Company. 



CONTENTS 



Voices of the Night. Page 

Prelude 1 

Hymn to the Night . . 2 

A Psalm of Life . . , 2 

The Reaper and the Flowers . . 3 

The Light of Stars , .... 3 

Footsteps of Angels . • 4 

Flowers 4 

The Beleaguered City . 5 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 5 

Earlier Poems. 

An April Day 6 

Autunm 7 

Woods in Winter 7 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem .8 

Sunrise on the Hills 8 

The Spirit of Poetry 9 

Burial of the Minnisink iO 

Translations. 

Coplas de Manrique 11 

The Good Shepherd 16 

To-morrow .16 

The Native Land 17 

The Image of God 17 

The Brook 17 

The Celestial Pilot 17 

The Terrestrial Paradise 18 

Beatrice .19 

Spring , 19 

The Child Asleep .20*^ 

The Grave .20 

King Christian 21 

The Happiest Land 21 

The Wave 22 

The Dead 22 

The Bird and the Ship 22 

Whither? ... 22 

Beware ! 23 " ^ 

Song of the Bell ..•--•.. 23 



vi CONTENTS. 

The Castle by the Sea 23 

The Black Knight 24 

Song of the Silent Land 24 

L'Envoi . 2. 

Ballads and other Poems. 

The Skeleton in Armor 25 

• The Wreck of the Hesperus 27 

'i^i^e Luck of Edenhall 28 

e Elected Knight .... .^ 29 

;;bildren of the Lord¥'Bupper 29 

■ llaneous. 

■ e Village Blacksmith 36 

niudymion 36 

The two Locks of Hair 37 

It is not always May 37 

The Rainy Day 37 

God's-Acre 37 

To the River Charles 38 

Blind Bartimeus 38 

The Goblet of Life 39 

Maidenhood 39 

Excelsior 40 

Mezzo Cammin 40 

Poems on Slavery. 

To William E. Channing « 41 

The Slave's Dream 41 

The Good Part, that shall not be taken away 42 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 42 

The Slave singing at Midnight 42 

The Witnesses 43 

The Quadroon Girl .... 43 

The Warning 44 

The Spanish Student , .... 44 

The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems. 

Carillon , ... 76 

The Belfry of Bruges 77 

Miscellaneous. 

A Gleam of Sunshine 78 

The Arsenal at Springfield 78 

Nuremberg 79 

The Norman Baron 80 

Rain in Summer 81 

To a Child . , , 82 

The Occultation of Orion 84 

The Bridge 85 

To the Driving Cloud 85 

SONOS AND SONNITS. 

Seaweed 86 

The Day is done .«...,.,..•... 87 



CONTENTS. VU 

Afternoon in February 87 

To an Old Danish Song-Book 88 

Walter von dor Vogelweid 88 

Drinking Song 89 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 89 

The Arrow and the Song 90 

The Evening Star . 90 

Autumn 91 

Dante 91 

The Cross of Snow 91 

Translations. 

The Hemlock Tree . , 92 

Annie of Tharaw 92 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door . ' 93 

The Legend of the Crossbill 93 

The Sea hath its Pearls 93 

Poetic Aphorisms 93 

Curfew 94 

.j-VANGELINE. A TaLE OF ACADIE 95 

iHE Seaside and the Fireside. 

Dedication 121 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship 122 

Chrysaor 126 

The Secret of the Sea 126 

Twilight 127 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 127 

The Lighthouse 128 

The Fire of Drift-Wood 129 

By the Fireside. 

Resignation 129 

The Builders 130 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass 130 

Birds of Passage 131 

The Open Window 132 

King Witlaf 's Drinking-Horn 132 

Gaspar Becerra 132 

Pegasus in Pound 133 

Tegner's Drapa 133 

Sonnet 134 

The Singers 134 

Siispiria 135 

Hymn 135 

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuill^ 135 

A Christmas Carol 140 

The Song of Hiawatha. 

Introduction 141 

I. The Peace-Pipe 142 

n. The Four Winds 144 

III, Hiawatha's Childhood • . . 146 



VIU CONTENTS. 

The Song of Hiawatha {continued). 

IV. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis 149 

V. Hiawatha's Fasting 161 

VI. Hiawatha's Friends 154 

VII. Hiawatha's Sailing 156 

VIII. Hiawatha's Fishing 157 

IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather 159 

X. Hiawatlia's Wooing 162 

XI. Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast 164 

XII. The Son of the Evening Star 167 

XIII- Blessing the Cornfields ..." 170 

XIV. Picture-Writing 172 

XV. Hiawatha's Lamentation 174 

XVI. Pau-Puk-Keewis 176 

XVII. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis 178 

XVIII. The Death of Kwasind 182 

XIX. The Ghosts 183 

XX. The Famine 185 

XXI. The White Man's Foot 186 

XXII. Hiawatha's Departure 189 

The Courtship of Miles Standish. 

1. Miles Standish 161 

II. Love and Friendship 193'^ 

III. The Lover's Errand 195 

IV. John Alden 198 

V. The Sailing of the May Flower 200 

VI. Priscilla 203 

VII. The March of Miles Standish 205 

VIII. The Spiiming-Wheel 207 

IX. The Wedding-Day 209 

Birds of Pi^rsACE. 
Flight the First. 

Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought . 211 

The Ladder of St. Augustme 212 

The Phantom Ship 212 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 213 

Haunted Houses 214 

In the Churchyard at CamlDridge 214 

TJie Em])eror's Bird's-Nest 215 

The Two Angels 215 

Daylight and Moonlight 216 

The Jewisli Cemetery at Newport / . • 216 

Oliver Basseliu . . . .' 217 

Victor Galbraith 218 . 

My Lost Youth 219 i" 

The Ropewalk 220 

The Golden Mile-Stone . ... 2*20 

Catawba Wine 221 

Santa Filomena 222 

The Discoverer of the North Cape 222 

Daybreak ........ 223 

Tlie Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 224 



CONTENTS. IX 

Children .224 

Sj^ndalphou 225 

IxioHT THE Second. 

The ChUdren's Horn- 225 

Enceladus 226 

The Cumberland 226 

Snow-Flakes 227 

A Day of Sunshine 227 

Something left Undone 227 

Weariness 228 

Flight the Thikd. 

Fata Morgana 228 

The Haunted Chamber 228 

The Meeting 229 

VoxPopuli 229 

The Castle-Builder 229 

Changed 229 

TheChaUenge 229 

The Brook and the Wave 230 

From the Spanish Cancioneros 230 

Aftermath .231 

Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought 231 

Tales of a Wayside Ixn. 
Part First. 

Prelude 

The Wayside Inn . . ^^' 232 

The Landlord's Tals. ^"'^''^ 

Paul Revere's Ride -^ 235 

Interlude 237 

The Student's Tale. 
The Falcon of Ser Federigo .237 

Interlude 241 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi < 242 

Interlude 243 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

King Robert of Sicily 243 

Interlude . 246 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Saga of King Olaf .246 

I. The Challenge of Thor 246 

n. King Olafs Return 247 

iiL Thora of Rimol 248 

IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty 248 

V. The Skerry of Shrieks 249 

VI. The Wraith of Odin 250 

VII. Iron-Beard . , 251 

-- viii. Gudnm 252 

IX. Thangbrand the Priest 253 

X. Raud the Strong 25* 

XI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 254 

XII. King Olaf s Christmas .... 255 



CONTENTS. 

The Saga of King Olaf (continued). 

XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent 256 

XIV, The Crew of the Long Serpent 257 

XV. A Little Bird in the Air 258 

XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks 258 

XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard 259 

XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald 260 

XIX. King Olaf's War-Horns 260 

XX. Einar Tamberskelver - 261 

XXI. King Olaf s Death-Drink 262 

XXII, The Nun of Nidaros 262 

Interlude 263 

The Theologian's Tale. 

Torquemada 264 

Interlude 267 

The Poet's Tale. 

The Birds of KiUingworth 268 

Finale . 271 

Part Second. 

Prelude 272 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

ThaBellofAtri 273 

Interlude 275 

The Spanish Jew's Tale, y 

Kambalu 275 

Interlude 277 

The Student's Tale. 

The Cobbler of Hagenau 277 

Interlude 279 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Ballad of Carmilhan. . . 280 

Interlude 283 

The Poet's Tale. 

Lady Wentworth 283 

Interlude 286 

The Theologian's Tale. 

The Legend Beautiful 286 

Interlude 287 

The Student's Second Tale. 

The Baron of St. Castine 288 

Finale 291 

Part Third. 

Prelude 293 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

Azrael ...''.,<, 293 

Interlude 293 

The Poet's Tale. 

Charlemagne 294 

Interlude 295 

The Student's Tale. 

Emma and Eginhard 295 

Interlude 298 



CONTENTS. XI 

The Theologian's Tale. 

Elizabeth , 299 

Interlude e . • . . 304 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

The Monk of Casal-Maggiore ... v ..,,.. . 304 

Interlude 309 

The Spanish Jew's Second Tale. 

Scanderbeg 309 

Interlude 311 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Mother's Ghost .....,, 312 

Interlude , . . . 313 

The Landlord's Tale. 

Tlie Rhyme of Sir Christopher 314 

Finale 316 

FIX>WER-DE-LUCE. 

Flower-de-Luce 317 

Palingenesis . . 317 

The Bridge of Cloud 318 

Hawthorne 319 

Christmas Behs ""'^ 

The Wind over the Chimney 

^ The Bells of LjTin 

Killed at the Ford 

Giotto's Tower 

To-morrow 

Divina Comniedia ^^^ 

Noel 323 



Judas Maccabeus 



k Handful of Translations. 

The Fugitive .... 336 

The Siege of Kazan . . c . . . 337 

The Boy and the Brook -. 337 

To the Stork ......... 338 

Consolation 338 

To Cardinal Richelieu 339 

The Angel and the Child „ 339 

To Italy 339 

<Vanderer's Night-Songs 340 

Remorse 340 

Santa Teresa's Book-Mark ,..,.. 340 

The Masque of Pandora. 

I. The Workshop of Hephaestus 341 

II. Olympus 342 

III. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus 342 

IV. The Air 344 

V. The House of Epimetheus 344 

VI. In the Garden 346 

VII. The House of Epimetheus .349 

VIII. In the Garden 350 



Xu CONTENTS. 

The Hanging of the Crane 862 

MoRiTURi Salutamus 354 

Birds of Passage. Flight the Fourth. 

Charles Sumuer 358 

Travels by the Fireside 359 

Cadeuabbia 359 

Monte Cassino 360 

Amalfi 361 

The Sermon of St. Francis 362 

Belisarius 362 . 

Songo River 363 

A Book of Sonnets. i \A/ 

Three Friends of Mine .... 364 

Chaucer 365 

Shakespeare 365 

Milton 365 

Keats 366 

The Galaxy 366 

The Sound of the Sea * 366 

A Summer Day by the Sea 366 

The Tides 367 

A Shadow 367 j 

A Nameless Grave 367 . .. 

Sleep Z%1 ^ y 

The Old Bridge at Florence 368 -^^ 

II Ponte Vecchio di Firenze 368 

KfiRAMOS 368 

Birds of Passage. Flight the Fifth. 

The Herons of Elmwood 372 

A Dutch Picture 373 

Castles in Spain 373 

Vittoria Colonna 374 y 

The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face 875 '^ 

To the River Yvette ~7'^~~. . . . .376 

The Emperor's Glove 376 

A Ballad of the French Fleet 376 

The Leap of Ronshan Beg 377 

Haroun Al Rascliid 373 

King Trisauku 378 

A Wiaith in the Mist 378 

The Three Kings 378 

Song 379 

The White Czar 379 

., Delia 380 

A Book of Sonnets. Part Second. 

Nature 380 

In the Churchyard at Tarrytown 380 

Eliot's Oak ,...,. 381 

The Descent of the Muses 381 



CONTENTS. xiil 

Venice 38, 

The Poets 3gj 



Parker Cleaveland 



381 



The Harvest Moon 3S2 

To the River Rhone 382 

The Three Silences of Molinos 382 

The Two Rivers 383 

Boston 383 

St John's, Cambridge 334 

Moods 384 

Woodstock Park 334 

The Four Princesses at Wilua 384 

Holidays , 335 

Wapentake 335 

The Broken Oar 335 

Translations. 

Virgil's First Eclogue .... 886 

Ovid in Exile ; . 337 

On the Terrace of the Aigalades 39O 

To my Brooklet 391 

Barreges 391 

Forsaken 391 

Allah 392 

Seven Sonnets and a Canzone, from the Italian of Michael Angelo. 

I. The Artist 392 

II. Fire 392 

III. Youth and Age 392 

IV. Old Age 393 

V. To Vittoria Colonna 393 

VI. To Vittoria Colonna 393 

VII. Dant« 393 

VIII. Canzone 394 

Oltima Thule. 

Dedication ....,.,. .394 

Bayard Taylor 394 

The Chamber over the Gate 395 

From my Arm-Chair = 395 

/ugurtha . ......•' 396 

^he Iron Pen ....... 396 

Robert Bums 397 

Helen of Tyre 397 

Elegiac • . . . * . . . 398 

Old St. David's at Radnor c 398 

FOLK-SONGS. 

The Sifting of Peter 899 

Maiden and Weathercock . 0.0 899 

The Windmill .... . , . - 400 

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls , . . e 408 



XIV CONTENTS. 

Sonnets. 

My Cathedral o . . 400 

The Burial of the Poet, R. II. Dana ...... o.. = 401 

Night . o o . o . 401 

L' Envoi. 

The Poet and his Songs 401 

In the IIarbor 

Becalmed a . . . . o . 402 

Hermes Trismegistus 402 

The Poefs Calendar o „ . 403 

Mad River, in the White Mountains ... , 405 

Auf Wiedersehen. In Memory of J, T. F 405 

The Children's Crusade 406 

The City and the Sea 407 

Sundown , 407 , /* 

President Garfield o 408 '^^ 

Decoration Day ..,.,.,. 408 

Chimes , .408 

Four by the Clock . . . , , 408 

The Four Lakes of Madison , . . , 409 

Moonlight . 409 

To the Avon 409 

Elegiac Verse , . . ' 409 

A Fragment , 410 

The Bells of San Bias ............ 411 

Translations. 

Prelude o... 412 

From the French o 412 

The Wine of Juran^on 412 

At La Chaudeau 412 

A Quiet Life 413 

FfiRSONAL Poems 

Loss and Gain 413 '' 

Autumn Within ....... » 413 

"Victor and Vanquished , 414 

Memories • . . . . o . . . 414 / 

My Books , 414 - 

L'Envoi. 

Possibilities ......... ,.3,. . 414 

JIlCHAEL AXGELO 

Dedication ,,.,.,,,, ^ 415 

Part First. 

I. Prologue at Ischia 4I5 

II. Monologue ...,.^,o3»,. <,. 418 

HI. San Silvestro , , , ^ .. 419 

IV. Cardinal Ippolito • • . o . . 3 , , , , . , 421 

V. Borgo delle Vergine at Naples ..13.,,,,., 426 

VI. Vittoria Colonna •...,,, .a.,. 430 



CONTENTS. XV 

Part Second. 

I. Monologue . ^ ........ .9. . . 434 

n. Viterbo . 435 

ni. Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini c 436 

IV. Fra Sebastiano del Piombo .... 440 

- V. Michael Angelo and Titian : Palazzo Belvedere 445 

VI. Palazzo Cesarini 447 

Part Third. 

I. Monologue : Macello de' Corvi , 449 

II. Vigna di Papa Giulio • , 450 

III. Biudo Altoviti 454 

IV. In the Coliseum 455 

v. Benvenuto again : Macello de' Corvi 457 

VI. Urbino's Fortune „ 4C2 

VII. The Oaks of Monte Luca .464 

VIII. The Dead Christ o 466 

Notes , o . 469 

Index op First Lines 489 

Index or Titles .,,.,. o. ^ „,, . .19.^ 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Portrait op Henry Wadsworth Longfellow , Frontispiect 

** Should not the dove so white 

Follow the seamew's flight " 26 ' 

" From under the sheltering trees, 
The farmer sees 

His pastures " 82 ' 

" Without, in the churchyard, waited the women " 108 ^ 

'' Heaped the snow in drifts around it " . . . . . . . . . 145 ' 

•* Can it be the sun descending " .... 167 '^ 

Plymouth, Massachusetts 210 1^ 

" And his ships went sailing, sailing " .... 247 ^ 

" Stood Mistress Sta vers in her furbelows " 283'' 

*' A little lady with golden hair " , « 314 ' 

" I see the table wider grown "........••••< 353 

" I will keep it 

In memory of the donor. Many thanks '^ .'....... >. 426 ' 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



UoTvia, noTvia. vv|, 

vuvoSoreipa ruiv ttoXvitovmv ^poTUiV, 

"Epe^oOev Wf juoAe juoAe KaraTTTepos 

'Ayafj-eiMvovLOv eirl 86/xov • 

vnb yap aXyeoju, vno re <rufJi<f>opai 

6totx<>Mt^'> ol\6iJie9a. 

Euripides. 



PKELUDE. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene. 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 

A slumberous «ound, a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream. 
As of innumerable wings. 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie. 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by. 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 
Ere Fancy has been quelled • 
1 



Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 
And chronicles of Eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sumij 

gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams. 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride. 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings. 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come, be a child once move ! " 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

0, I could not choose iout go 
Into the woodlands hoar, — 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there. 
Kneeling at her evening ])rayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan -like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapor soft and blue, 

In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on m)'' weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower. 
The dreams of youth came back again, 
Low lispiiigs of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain. 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
*' It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

*• The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

** Learn, that henceforth thy song shall 
be. 

Not mountains capped with snow, 
Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 
Where the woodlands bend to see 

The bending heavens below. 

" There is a forest where the din 

S)f iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin. 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

"Athwart the swinging branches cast. 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

We can return no more ! ' 

"Look, then, into thine heart, and 
write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or aff'right, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

*A<rira<rtij, rpiAAicrTos. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the 

Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed witli 

light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of mighti 
Stoop o'er me from above ; 

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
As of the one 1 love. 

I heard the sounds of sorroA' and delight. 
The manifold, soft chimes, 

That fill the haunted chambers of the 
Night, 
Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight 
air 
My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there, — 
From those deep cisterns flows. 

holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 
What man has borne before ! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 
And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe 
this prayer ! 
Descend with broad-winged flight. 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, thy 
most fair. 
The best-beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN 
SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream ! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust retumest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 
Is our destined end or way ; 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 



3 



But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, tht)ugh stout and 
brave, 

Still, like muflled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
"We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; — 

Footprints, that perhaps another. 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let lis, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, Avith his sickle keen. 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " 
saith he ; 
*' Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is 
sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

'■'My Lord has need of these flowerets 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where he was once a child. 



' ' They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

0, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the gi"een earth. 

And took the flowers away. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 
But the cold light of stars ; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar. 
Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night 

To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast. 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art. 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart. 
Be resolute and calm. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know erelong, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To sufler and he stronej. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGEL8. 

When the hours of Day are numbered, 
And the voices of the Night 

Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows i'rom the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted. 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suff"ering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine. 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended. 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Boft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O5 though oft depressed and lonely, 

All my fears are laid aside. 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full A\ell, in language quaint and 
olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and 
golden. 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do 
shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our his- 
tory. 
As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mys- 
tery. 
Like the burning stars, which they 
beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as won 
drous, 
God hath written in tho.se stars above ; 
But not less in the bright flowerets Uft- 
der us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of 
ours ; 
Making evident our own creation. 

In these stars of earth, these golden 
flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being, 
Which is throbbing in his brain and 
heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shin- 
ing, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day. 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silvei 
lining. 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous: 
tissues. 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 
Large desires, with most uncertain is- 
sues. 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming ; 
AVorkings are they of the self-same 
powers. 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 



Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is 
born ; 
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er- 
flowiug, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned 
field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wear- 
ing. 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
"Where the slaves of nature stoop to 
drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant. 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flow- 



In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
Flowers expand their light and soul- 
like wings. 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection. 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale. 
Some legend strange and vague. 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead. 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound. 
The spectral camp was seen. 



And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of 
man. 

That strange and mystic scroll. 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And when the solemn and desD church- 
bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell. 

The shadows sweep away. 

DowTi the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star. 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY 
ING YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old. 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold. 
Plucks the old /nan by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely ! 



EARLIER POEMS, 



The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling. 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses. 
Singing, ' ' Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, pray ! " 

A-nd the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 

And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with 
heather, 
Like Aveak, despised Lear, 
A king, a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! 0, the old man gray 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, 
To the voice gentle and low 



Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 
* ' Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me ! " 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies. 
No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth. 
And the forests utter a moan, 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 
" Vex not his ghofet ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on. 

The storm- wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 
Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast. 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson 1 



EARLIER POEMS. 



[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age 
of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a 
vagabond and precarious existence in the comers of newspapers ; or have changed their names and 
run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar 
occasion : " I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and 
almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to 
go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] 



AN APRIL DAY. 



When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned 

again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where 
springs 
The first flower of the plain. 



I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with 

bright forms. 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and 
thrives ; 



WOODS IN WINTER. 



Though stricken to the heart with winter's 
cold, 
The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and col- 
ored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that 
moves along 
The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
rhe silver woods with light, the green 

slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills. 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born. 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching 

far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her 
horn. 
And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling 

shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side. 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are Aved ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn 
brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the 

year ! 
The buib of spring, those beautiful har- 
bingers 
Of sunn _; skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture 

spread out ; 
A.nd when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and 

with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A. pomp and pageant fill the splendid 
scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing 
now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered 
trees, 



And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autunm woods. 
And dipping in warm light the pillarea 

clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer 

bird. 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the 

vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate 

wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up 

life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep- 
crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow : 

leaved. 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, 

sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the 

trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple 

finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive 

whistle. 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst 

aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue- 
bird sings, 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds frdhi the threshing-floor the busy 

flail. 

what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes 

forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and 

looks 
On duties well performed, and days well 

spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow 

leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent 

teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that 

Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows the 
gale. 

With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 



EARLIER POEMS. 



O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert 
Avoods, 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes . 

Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute 
springs 

Pour out the river's gradual tide, 
Shrilly the skater's iron rings. 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay. 

And winds were soft, and woods were 
green. 
And the song ceased not with the day ! 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your 
crowd ; 

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord. 
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS 
OF BETHLEHEM. 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's 
BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head ; 

And the censer burning swung. 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The crimson banner, that with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 

A.nd the nuns' sweet hymn was heard 

the while, 
^ung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

"Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale. 



When the cl^rion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering 
breaks. 

' ' Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's en circling wreath, 
Guard it, till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour. 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner ! But when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! By our holy vow. 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears. 
Spare him ! he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! as thou -wouldst be 
spared ! 

" Take thy banner ! and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's 

bier. 
And the mufiled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven'3 

wide arch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning 

march. 
And woods were brightened, and soft 

gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun -clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed 

in light, 
They gathered mid- way round the wood 

ed height. 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown. 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 
Through the gray mist thrust up its 

shattered lance, 
And rocking on the cliff" was left 
1 The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 



The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's 

flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade, 
Or glistened in the white cascade ; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of 

day. 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash. 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver 

beach. 
The woods were bending with a silent 

reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the wood- 
land lills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout. 
That faint and far the glen sent out. 
Where, answering to the sudden shot, 

thin smoke. 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the 
dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will 

keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul 

from sleep. 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods. 

That dwells where'er the gentle south- 
wind blows ; 

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in 
the glade. 

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the 
soft air. 

The leaves above their sunny palms out- 
spread. 

With what a tender and impassioned voice 

It fills the niceand delicateear of thought. 

When the fast ushering star of morning 
comes 

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden 
scarf ; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled 
Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the western 
gate- 



Departs with silent pace 1 That spirit 

moves 
In the green valley, where the diver 

brook. 
From its full laver, pours the white cas- 
cade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled 

woods. 
Slips down through moss-grown stonee 

with endless laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm. 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And 

here, amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts 

from earth, 
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright 

air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence 

gifted bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet 

shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in 

all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden 

sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its 

way. 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle 

winds. 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong 

sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, 

goes. 
Groves, through whose broken roof the 

sky looks in. 
Mountain, and shattered cliff", and sunny 

vale. 
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty 

trees, 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth 

fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days 

of youth. 
My busy fancy oft embodies it. 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly 

forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft 

hues 
That stain the Avild bird's wing, und flush 

the clouds 



10 



EARLIER 1>0EMS. 



When the sun sets. Within her tender 

eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing 

light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is 

hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her 

hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
When twilight makes them brown, and 

on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her 

breath. 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy ilowers, it 

comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the till night, with its passion- 
ate caoence. 



BURIAL OF THE MmNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell. 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf Avas brown. 
With soft and silent lapse came down. 
The glory, that the wood receives, 
At sunset, in its golden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the.blue hills. One cloud of white, 
Around a far uplifted cone. 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes. 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 



The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers. 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and 
beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame. 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial 
dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



COELAS DE MANRIQUE. 



11 



TRANSLATIOl^S. 



[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished ia the last half of the fifteenth 
century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his His- 
tory of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucl^s ; and speaks 
of him as " a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He 
died young ; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the 
world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame.'' He was mortally wounded in a 
skirmish near Canavete, in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, 
is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the town of 
Ucl6s ; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaiia. It was his death that called forth the poem 
upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, 
" Don Jorge Blanrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of geniu^, and 
high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is 
not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful ; and, in 
accordance with it, the style moves on, — calm, dignified, and majestic] 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

LET the soul her slumLers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
"With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past. 
More highly prize. ' 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright. 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that 's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
Tlie silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be SAvallowed uu and lost 
In one dark wa\ 



Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 
There all are equal ; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathle.ss few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives. 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise. 

The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, 

To Him I cry. 

Who shared on earth our common lot. 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place. 
Life is the running of the race, 
We reach the goal 
When, in the mansions of the blest. 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought. 
This world would school each wandering 
thought 



12 



TRANSLATIONS. 



To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
Up to that better world on high, 
For which we wait. 

Yes, the glad messenger of love. 
To guide us to oui home above, 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears. 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 

The bubbles we pursue on earth, 

The shapes we chase. 

Amid a world of treachery ! 

They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 

And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from usj chances 

strange, 
Disastrous accident, and change, 
That come to all ; 
Even in the most exalted state, 
Eelentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 
The strongest fall. 

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek. 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow. 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, jpiipre are they ? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts. 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life's first stage ; 
These shall become a heavy weight, 
When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame. 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Wei-e swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust. 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust. 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain. 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high esta+e of pride, 
With what untimely spee'i they glide, 
How soon depart ! 



Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 
The vassals of a mistress they, 
Of fickle heart. 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found ; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows. 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey. 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
What are they, all. 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall ? 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near. 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face. 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace. 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power. 
What ardor show, 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In Aveeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 
Famous in history and in song 
Of olden time. 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



13 



Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 
Their race aiiblime. 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 
Pontiff and ])riest, and sceptred throng ? 
On these shall fall 
• As heavily the hand of Death, 
As when it stays the shepherd's breath 
Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago, 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday. 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high emprise. 

In battle done ? 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply. 
And nodding plume, 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green. 
That deck the tomb ? 

Where are the high-born dames, and 

where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 
Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold. 

The dancers wore ? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 



0, in what winning smiles arrayed. 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But how falsG and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All lilled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought. 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright. 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight. 
In rich array, 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass. 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he. 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was hi his train ! 

But he Avas mortal ; and the breath, 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully. 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Constable, the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all ; 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 
He on the gloomy scaflbld died. 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care. 

His villages and villas fair. 

His mighty power, 

What were they all but grief and shame, 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity. 
Might rival kings ; 



14 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosi3erous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame. 
And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high. 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound. 
And palisade. 

And covered trench, secure and deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

Death, from thee, 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath. 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly, 

World ! so few the years we live. 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast. 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And' sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 



Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe^ 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade^ 
To whom all hearts their hom.age paid, 
As Virtue's son, 

Eoderic Manrique, he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be 

sung ? 
The name, that dwells on every tongue, 
No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 
To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 

What prudence with the old and wise : 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave. 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star. 

The rush of Caisar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause ; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine. 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man. 
And generous will ; 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 



15 



lu tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more. 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well- filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train. 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour. 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 

After high deeds, not left untold, 
In the stern warfare, which of old 
'T was his to share. 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 
And fairer regions, than before, 
His guerdon were. 

These are the records, half effaced, 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page ; 

But ^^^th fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored, 
He stood, in his high dignity. 
The proudest knight of chivalry. 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power ; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade. 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valor of his hand, 
His monarch and his native land 
Were nobly served ; 



Let Portugal repeat tlie story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe. 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal. 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valor strong, 
That neither history nor song 
Can count them all ; 
Then, on Ocana's castled rock, 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call. 



To leave this Avorld of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 
Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armor for the fray, 
The closing scene. 

" Since thou hast been, in battle -strife, 

So prodigal of health and life. 

For earthly fame, 

Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 

Loud on the last stern battle-plain 

They call thy name. 

"Think not the struggle that draws 

near 
Too terrible for man, nor fear 
To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit gi'ieve, 
Its life of glorious fame to leave 
On earth below. 

" A life of honor and of Avorth 

Has no eternity on earth, 

'T is but a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

" The eternal life, beyond the sky. 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 
The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 
A joy so great, 

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 
His ])rayers and tears ; 



IQ 



TRANSLATIONS. 



And the brave knight, whose arm en- 
dures 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
His standard rears. 

"And thou, brave knight, whose hand 

lias poured 
The life-blood of the Pagan horde 
O'er all the land, 

in heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
And dauntless hand. 

''Cheered onward by this promise sure, 

Strong in the faith entire and pure 

Thou dost profess, 

De})art, thy hope is certainty, 

The thiid, the better life on high 

Shalt thou possess." 

•' Death, no more, no more delay ; 

My spirit longs to flee away, 

And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, 

I bow to the divine decree, 

To God's behest. 

•' My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign 

will 
That we shall die. 

" thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

" And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
0, pardon me ! " 

As thus the dying warrior prayed. 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 
God leail it to its long repose, 
Its glorious rest ! 



And, though the warrior's sun has set, 
Its light shall linger round us yet, 
Bright, radiant, blest. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

FKOM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Shepherd ! who with thine amorous, 
sylvan song 

Hast broken the slumber that encom- 
jmssed me, 

Who mad'st thy crook from the ac- 
cursed tree. 

On which thy powerful amis were 
stretched so long ! 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing foun- 
tains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and 
guide shalt be ; 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the moun- 
tains. 
Hear, Slie})herd ! thou who for thy flock 
art dying, 

0, wash away these scarlet sins, for 
thou 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
0, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying, 

Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when 
I see, 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt 
waiting still for me ! 



TO-MORROW. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that, with uucea.sing 

care. 
Thou didst seek after me, that thou 

didst wait. 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my 

gate. 
And ]>ass the glooinv nights of winter 

there ? 
strange delusion ! that 1 did not greet 
Thy blest a]i]n-oach, and 0, to Heaven 

how lost, 
If my ingratitude'o unkindly frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon 

thy feet. 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
"Soul, from thy casement look, and 

thou shalt see 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 



17 



How he persists to knock and wait 
for thee ! " 
And, ! how often to that voice of sor- 
row, 
" To-morrow we will open," I replied, 
And when the morrow came i an- 
swered still, "To-morrow." 



THE NATIVE LAND. 

'from the SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 
ALDANA. 

Clear fount of light ! my native land 

on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never 

fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or 

shade. 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its etliereal 

essence, 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble 

breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glori- 
ous pi-esence 
"With ]utying eye beholds, yet fears 

not, death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy 

shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for 

thee ! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I 

adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers 

the way. 
That, whither love aspires, there shall 

my dwelling be. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPAN\:5ir OF FRANCISCO DE 
ALDANA. 

Lord ! who seest, from yon starry 
height, 

Centred in one the future an<l the past. 

Fashioned in thine own image, see 
how fast 

The world obscures in me what once 
was bright ! 
Eternal Sun ! the waruith which thou 
hast given. 

To cheer life's flowery April, fast de- 
cays ; 



Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, 
Forever green shall be my trust in 

Heaven. 
Celestial King ! let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on 

high. 
As the retlected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks 

it there. 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird 

and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the 

morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are 

born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in 

thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current 

strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver 

teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter 

seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each 

shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all trans- 

l)arent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious 

eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round 

pebbles count ! 
How, without malice murmuring, glides 

thy current ! 
sweet simplicity of days gone by! 
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to 

dwell in limpid fount ! 

THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of 
morning, 
Through the gross vapors. Mars grows 

fiery I'ed 
Down in the west upon theocenn floor 
Appeared to me, — may I again behold 
it ! 



18 



TKANSLATIONS. 



A light along the sea, so swiftly com- 
ing, 

Its motion by no flight of wing is 
equalled. 
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a 
little 

]\line eyes, that I might question my 
conductor, 

Again 1 saw it brighter grown and 
larger. 
Thereafter, on all sides of it, ap^jeared 

1 knew not what of white, and under- 
neath, 

Little by little, there came forth an- 
other. 
My master yet had uttered not a word, 

While the first whiteness into wings 
unfolded ; 

But, when \ i clearly recognized the 
pilot, 
He cried aloud : *' Quick, quick, and 
bow the knee ! 

Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy 
hands ! 

Henceforward shalt thou see such 
officers ! 
See, how he scorns all human arguments, 

So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 

Than liis own wings, between so dis- 
tant shores ! 
See, how he holds them, pointed straight 
to heaven, 

Fanning the air with the eternal pin- 
ions. 

That do not moult themselves like 
mortal hair ! " 
And thc^n, as nearer and more near us 
came 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he 
appeared, 

So that the eye could not sustain his 
presence, 
But down I cast it ; and he came to 
shore 

With a small vessel, gliding swift and 
light, 

So that the water swallowed naught 
thereof. 
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 

Beatitude seemed Avritten in his face ! 

And more than a hundred spirits sat 
■within. 
" In exitu Israel cle ^gypto ! " 

Thus sang they all together in one 
voice. 

With whatso in that Psalm is aftei- 
written. 



Then made he sign of holy rood upon 

them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the 

shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

FKOM DANTE. PURGATOIIIO, XXVIIl. 

Longing already to search in and round 

The heavenly forest, dense and living- 
green, 

AVhich tempered to the eyes the new> 
born day, 
Withouten more delay I left the bank, 

Crossing the level country slowly, 
slowly. 

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed 
fragrance. 
A gently-breathing air, that no muta- 
tion 

Had in itself, smote me upon the fore- 
head, 

No heavier blow, than of a pleasant 
breeze. 
Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward to- 
wards that side 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy 
Mountain ; 
Yet not from their upright direction bent 

So that the little birds upon their tops 

Should cease the practice of their tune- 
ful art ; 
But, with full-throated joy, the hours of 
prime 

Singing received they in the midst of 
foliage 

That made monotonous burden to 
their rhymes. 
Even as from branch to branch it gath- 
ering sAvells, 

Through the pine forests on the shore 
of Chiassi, 

When iEolus unlooses the Sirocco, 
Already my slow steps had led me on 

Into^the ancient wood so far, that I 

Could see no more the place where I 
had entered. 
And lo ! my further .course cut off a 
river. 

Which, tow'rds the left hand, M'ith its 
little waves. 

Bent down the grass, that on its mar- 
gin sprang. 



SPRING. 



19 



All waters that on earth most limpid 
are, 

"Would seem to have within them- 
selves some mixture, 

Compared with tliat, which nothing 
doth conceal, 
Although it moves on witli a brown, 
brown current. 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the 
moon. 



BEATRICE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, at the final sum- 
mons, 

Shall rise up quickened, each one from 
his grave, 
iring 
flesh,. 
So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 

Ministers and messengers of life eter- 
nal. 
They all were saying, '' Bcnedidus qui 
venis," 

And scattering flowers above and round 
about, 

'' Manibus o date Hlia ple^iis." 
Oft have I seen, at the approach of day. 

The orient sky all stained with roseate 
hues. 

And the other heaven with light serene 
adorned, 
And the sun's face uprising, over- 
shadowed, 

So that, by temperate influence of 
vapors, 

The eye sustained his aspect for long 
while ; 
Thus in tl^ bosom of a cloud of flowers. 

Which from those hands angelic were 
thrown up, 

And down descended inside and with- 
out, 
With crown of olive o'er a snow-white 
veil, 

Appeared a lady, under a green man- 
tle. 

Vested in colors of the living flame. 

Even as the snow, among the living 
rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 



Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian 
winds. 
And then, dissolving, filters through it- 
self. 

Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, 
breathes. 

Like as a taper melts before a fire. 
Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 

Before the song of those who chime 
forever 

After the chiming of the eternal 
spheres ; 
But, when I heard in those sweet melo- 
dies 

Compassion for me, more than had 
they said, 

"0 wdierefore, lady, dost thou thus 
consume him ? " 
The ice, that was about my heart con- 
gealed. 

To air and water changed, and, in my 
anguish. 

Through lips and eyes came gushing 
from my breast. 

Confusion and dismay, together mingled. 
Forced such a feeble "Yes ! " out of 

my mouth. 
To understand it one had need of 

sight. 
Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is 

discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and 

the bow. 
And with less force the arrow hits the 

mark ; 
So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and 

sighs. 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon 

its passage. 



SPRING. 

from the french of charles 
d'orleans. 

XV. century. 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 
Well dost thou thy power display ! 

For Winter maketh the light heart sad. 
And thou, thou makest the sad heart 

gay. 

He sees thee, and calls to his gloom> 
train, 



20 



TRANSLATIONS. 



fhe sleet, and the snow, and the wind, 

and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in 
fear, 
"When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, 

so old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers low ; 

And, snugly housed from the wind and 

weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows 
clear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy 
sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of 
cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is 
nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful 
shroud, 
And the earth looks "bright, and Winter 

surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both late and 

early. 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's 
face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have 
pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently 
place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's 
breast. 

tTpon that tender eye, my little friend, 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not 
to me ! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for 
thee! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his 
brow ; 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams 
of harm. 



Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy 
glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death's 
cold arm ? 

Awake, mv boy ! I tremble with af- 
fright ! 
Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! 
Unclose 
Thine eve but for one moment on the 
light ! 
Even at the price of thine, give me 
repose ! 

Sweet error ! he but slept, I breathe 
again ; 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of 
sleep beguile ! 
0, when shall he, for whom I sigh in 
vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy waking 
smile ? 



THE GEAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born. 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered. 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel- ways are low. 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh, 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold. 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Peath hath the key. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 



21 



Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends 
Thou hast no friend, 
"Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 
FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it 

passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
** Fly ! " shouted they, "fly, he who can! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The stroke ? " 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar. 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore. 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's 
roar, 

" Now is the hour !" 
" Fly ! " shouted they, ** for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power ? "' 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that 
rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders TordenskioV, 
tet each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly ! 



Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite. 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might. 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms. 
And war and victory, be thine arras 

My grave ! 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows. 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand. 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 

"Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

" 1 had rather live in Lapland, 
Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

" The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabia-i 
and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
" If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 
And the cobbler blows the horn. 

And the miner blows the bugle, 
Over mountain gorge and bourn.' 



22 



TRANSLATIONS. 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 

4nd said, " Ye may no more contend, 
There lies the happiest land ! " 



THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

"Whither, thou turbid wave ? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou ? " 

" I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust ; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity. 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



THE DEAD. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN. 

How they so softly rest. 
All they the holy ones, 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 
How they so softly rest. 
All in their silent graves. 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking I 

And they no longer Ayeep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 
And they no longer feel. 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed. 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MlJLLER. 

The rivers rush into the sea. 
By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 

'* The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play ; 

And everything, that can sing and fly. 
Goes with us, and far away. 



' ' I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, 
or Avhence, 
With thy fluttering golden band?" — 
' ' I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide 
sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

' ' Full and swollen is every sail ; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast 
tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

*' I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too hea^'y am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

"High over the sails, high over the 
mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When th}'^ merry companions are still, at 
last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my 
voice. 

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one ! 
1 dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

' ' Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 

And this same song, my whole life long, 
Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MiJLLER. 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley i-ushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

1 know- not what came o'er me. 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward, 
All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther, 
And ever the brook beside ; 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



23 



A.nd ever fresher murmured, 
And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses a*vay. 

"What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 
y 

Let them sing, my friend, let them 
murmur. 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



BEWARE ! 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

f KNOW a maiden fair to see. 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow. 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest menily. 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly. 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening. 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou monrn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings. 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom. 

Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking. 
Thou alone canst raise it. 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

" Hast thou seen that lordly castle. 

That Castle by the Sea ? 
Golden and red above it 

The clouds float gorgeously. 

" And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening's crimson glow." 

"Well have I seen that castle. 

That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly." 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 
Had they a merry chime ? 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Didst thou hear, from those lofty cham- 
bers, 
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 

" The winds and the Avaves of ocean. 

They rested quietly. 
But 1 heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine eye." 

* ' And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

'* Led they not forth, in raj)ture, 

A beauteous maiden there ? 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ? " 

"Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their side ! " 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
When woods and helds put off all sad- 
ness. 

Thus liegan the King and spake : 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hof burg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners jiroudly, 

From balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears. 
Fell all the cavaliers. 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Kode at last a sable Knight. 

''Sir Knight ! your name and scutch- 
eon, say ! " 
" Should I speak it here. 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I am a Prince of mighty sway ! " 

When he rode into the lists. 
The arch of heaven grew black with 
mists, 
And the castle 'gan to rock ; 



At the first blow. 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 
Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 
Torch - light through the high halls 
glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand. 

Doth with her the dance begin. 

Danced in sable iron sark, 
Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from lier the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the gi'ound. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame ; 

'Twixt son and daughter all dis. 
traught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined. 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 

" Golden wine will make you whole ! ' 
The children drank. 
Gave many a courteous thank : 

" 0, that draught was very co^I ! " 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; a,nd their faces 

Colorless grow utterly ; 
Whichever way 
Looks the feai--struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

" Roses in the spring 1 gather ! " 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lei^l us thither ? 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOK. 



25 



Cloutls in the evening sky more darkly 

gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the 

strand. 
Who leads us Avith a gentle hand 
Thither, thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 

IntQ the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning- 
visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge 
and band ! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand. 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Land ! Land 1 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted. 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth 

stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
To the land of the great Departed, 
Into the Silent Laud ! 



L' EN VOL 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear. 

And say to them, " Be of good cheei ! ''' 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar J 

Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps 1 



BALLADS 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

** Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
; Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber 

** I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 



No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse 
For this I sodglit thee. 



** Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, Avith my childish hand. 

Tamed the gerfalcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the lialf-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 



"Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the giisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 



26 



BALLADS A.ND OTHER POEMS. 



Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 

** But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail, 



" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid. 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall. 
Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

** While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts Avaft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

BIb'v the foam lightly. 



" She was a Prince's child. 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I Avas discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-meAv's flight. 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea. 
Bearing the maid A\'ith me. 
Fairest of all Avas she 

Among the Norsemen ! 
When on the Avhite sea-strand, 
WaAdng his armed hand, 
SaAV AA-e old Hildebrand, 

With tAA'enty horsemen. 

** Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet AA'e Avere gaining fast. 

When the Avind failed us ; 
And AAith a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So thaj; our foe aa-^c saw- 
Laugh as he hailed us. 

" And as to catch the gale 
Eound veered the flapping sail. 
Death ! AA^as the helmsman's hail, 

Death Avithout quarter ! 
Mid -ships AAith iron keel 
Struck AA'e her ribs of steel ; 
DoAAn her black hulk did reel 

Through the black Avater ! 

' ' As AAdth his AA'ings aslant. 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 

With his prey laden, 
So toAvard the open main. 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the AA'ild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

I " Three Aveeks Ave AvestAA-ard bore, 
And Avhen the storm Avas o'er. 
Cloud-like Ave saAv the shore 

Stretching to leeAvard ; 
There for my lady's boAver 
Built I the lofty toAA-er, 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking seaward. 

" There lived aa'c many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 
She Avas a mother ; 




Should not the dove so white, 

Follow the seamew's flight." Page 26. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



27 



Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 
On such another ! 

" Still grew ray bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to nie were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
C'lad in my warlike gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 

0, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the Avarrior's soul. 
Skoal ! to the Northland ! skoal ! 

Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter. 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax. 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn 
buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth. 

And he watched how the veering flaw 
did blow 
The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sail5r, 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

'' I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden 
ring. 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 
A gale from the Northeast, 



The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 
The vessel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and j)aused, like a fright- 
ed steed. 
Then leaped her cable's length. 

' • Come hither ! come hither ! my littk 
daughter. 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's 
coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

"0 father ! I hear the church -bells ring, 

say, what may it be ? " 
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound 
coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

say, what may it be ? " 
' ' Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

' ' father ! I see a gleaming light, 

say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff' and stark. 
With his face turned to the skies. 

The lantern gleamed through the gleam 
ing snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands ant^ 
prayed 
That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled 
the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear. 
Through the "whistling sleet and 
snow. 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe 



28 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the laud ; 

!t was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a drear}' wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel locks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

tier rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank. 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fislierman stood aghast. 
To see the foim of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea- 
weed. 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wr ck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the lestal trumpet's call ; 
He rises at the banquet board, 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
" Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

The butler hears the words with pain. 
The house's oldest seneschal. 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. , 

Then said the Lord: "This glass to 

praise, 
Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 



The graybeard with trembling hand 

obeys ; 
A purple light shines over all. 
It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaksthe Lord, and waves it light -. 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it. If this glass doth fall, 
Fareivdl tlien, Luck of Edenhall ! 

" 'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Dee]) draughts drink we right willingly ? 
And willingly ring, with mei-ry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Eden- 
hxll!" 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's 

fan, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

' ' For its keeper takes a race of might, 
The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
It has lasted longer than is right ; 
Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow 

than all 
Will 1 try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild liames 

start ; 
The guests in du."t are scattered all. 
With the breaking J^uck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, Avith fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
/Slain by the sword lies the youthfu) 

Loi'd, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone. 
The graybeard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton. 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

''The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall 

aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD S SUPPER. 



29 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 
i^ uii seven miles broad and seven miles 
wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the 
man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 

Re saw under the hillside 
A Knight full well equipped ; 

His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 
He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little crolden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang. 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 
Twelve little golden wheels ; 

Anon in eddies the wild wind blew. 
And round and round the wheels they 
flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 

And it was sharper than diam-jud-stone, 
It made Sir Oluf s heart to groan. 

He wore upon his helm 
A wreath of ruddy gold ; 



And that gave him the Maidens Three, 
The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he Avere come from heaven down ; 

" Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, 
" So will I yield me unto thee." 

** I am not Christ the Great, 
Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 

I am an Unknown Knight, 
Three modest Maidens have me be* 
dight." 

"Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight 
Sc shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 

For all the Maidens' honor ! " 

The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode, 
They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 
Tliey both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the ]\Iaiilens in the high tower 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORDS SUPPER. 



FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNltR. 



Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village 

Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the belfiy, 

Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the S]inng-sun 

Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 

Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses, 

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet 

Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! with lips rosy-tinted 

AVhispered the race of the fiowers, and merry on balancing branches 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adoi-ned like a leaf-woven arbor 

Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each cross of iron 

Hung was a frasriant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the de])arted, 

(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was cmbidlished with blossoms 

Like to the ]iatriarch hoary, the sage of his kitli and the ham'et, 

Who on his birthday is crowned by children and ehildnni's children. 



30 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

So stooil the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 

Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, 

While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 

AVhen the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, 

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was 

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. 

There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions 

Saw Ave in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood 

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver 

Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horborg, 

Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf- work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in lieave\i, when he cast from off" him his mantle, 
So cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its mighty pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 
And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. 
Lo ! there entered then into the church the Keverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 
Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 
Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man ; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. 
All the congi-egation arose in the pews that were numbered. 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chanceL 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service. 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. 
Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel, 
Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places. 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. 
But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies. 
Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavein- 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginni 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 31 

Answered the cliildren with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man't) 

Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal 

Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. 

Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, 

Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 

Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them; 

And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, 

Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, 

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 

E'en as the green-gi'owing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches, 

Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine, 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation. 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and straightway transfigured 
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 
Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent 
Sho<- he ; his voice was detp, was low like the thunder afar otf. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he questioned. 

"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith vvhereunto I baptized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ; — to-day on the threshold of childhoon^ 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election. 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence. 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, before ye make answer! 
Think not, think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multitude hears you. 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. 
Thus, then, — believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united ? 
"Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother ? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God and man ? " — With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the nraidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teachei 
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in accents more gentle, 
Soft as the evening's breath, as haips by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all t To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcoma 
Cliildren no more from this day, bat by covenant brothers and sisters ! 



32 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Vet, — for what reason not children ? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, 

Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in turn and chastising, 

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 

Blest are the pure before God ! Upon puritj- and upon virtue 

Resteth the Christian Faith ; she lierself from on high is descended. 

Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, 

Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for 

0, as ye w ander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 

Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, 

0, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn backward 

Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 

Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, 

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven. 

Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven 1 

Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father eternal 

Gave me gladness and care ; but the loveliest hours of existence, 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them, 

Known them all again ; — they were my childhood's acquaintance. 

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, 

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood 

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed. 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful and humble, 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; do not reject her, 

For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. — 

Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly flieth incessant 

'Twixt che earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions. 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, 

Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrowing children 

Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, 

Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 

Kneels before the Eternal's throne ; and with hands interfolded. 

Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. 

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven ? 

What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has not received ? 

Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 

Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who 

Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world he created. 

Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory.' 

Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven. 

Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums 

Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing 

Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the judge is terrific, 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 33 

feasting the insolent down at a glance. "When he speaks in his anger 

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. 

yet, — why ai-e ye afraid, ye children ? This awful avenger. 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in the earth(iuake. 

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. 

Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; worlds without number 

Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for this purpose only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed foith his spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. 

Quench, quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother 

Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that you may be happy 

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-houf 

Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then was completed. 

Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing 

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 

Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma, — Atonement ! 

Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father ; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but aflection ; 

Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead ? 

Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother^ 

Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples ? 

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost thou know him 1 

Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over liis failings, 

Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly shepherd 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among mortals 

Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense, — Hope, the befriending, 

Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful 

Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows ! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 

Having naught else bu': Hope. Tlien praise we our Father in heaven, 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been transfigured, 

Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living assurance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of aff"ection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's, 

For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foundation 

Draws she with chains down to eaith, and the New Jerusalem sinketh 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enrax)tured. she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic. 



34 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead. 

Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 

Even as day does the sun ; the Eight from the Good is an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more than 

Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide. 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear witness 

Kot what they seemed, — but what they were only. Blessed is he who 

Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until death's hand 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you ? 

Death is the brother of Love, twin -brother is he, and is only 

More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading 

Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of aff"ection, 

Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his pinions, 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face to face standing 

Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 

Nobler, better than 1 ; they stand by the throne all transfigured. 

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, 

Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth shall ye heed not ; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have j^ledged you to heaven. 

God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love everlasting, 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! 1 send up my ])rayer to thy lieaven ! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, 

Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loveil them all like a father. 

May they bear witness foi- me, that 1 taught them the way of salvation. 

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again may they know me. 

Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them. 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, 

Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me ! " 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of the old man 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure. 
Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly 
With him the children read ; at the close, with trenuilous accents, 
Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for the day ; the following Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord s holy Supjier. 
Sudden, as .struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; while thoughts high and hol\ 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful bright 

ness. 
*'0n the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall' rest in the graveyard ! 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely. 
Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the hour is accomplished. 
Warm is the heart ; — I Avill ! for to-day grows the haivest of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now ; what failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 
Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven. 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement ? 
What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LOKD'S SUPPER. 35 

Of tne new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and iransgressions 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in the Heart the Atonement. 

Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite likewise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels. 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp's strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent. 

Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. 

Downward to earth he came and, transfigured, thence reasceuded, 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting 

Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 

Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention afone of amendment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, 

Penitence weeping and praying ; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed bod}'', 

And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth and drinketh 

Death and doom ! xind from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement ? " 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, 

** Yes ! " with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications; 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem : 

"0 Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions. 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon us ! " 

Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids. 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. 

0, then seemed it to me as if God, witli the broad eye of midday, 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. 

But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Ste])hen ; they saw there 

Radiant in glory the Father, 'and on his right hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their facea 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 



36 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face. 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
W^ith measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach. 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorro\ving. 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin. 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy 
friend. 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 



Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 



ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars •, 
Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 

As if Diana, in her dreams. 
Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought. 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 



It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

weary hearts ! slumbering eyes ! 
drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate. 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen Avings, 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
'* Where hast thou stayed so long? " 



THE RAINY DAY. 



37 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked. 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! AAvay that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 

Two locks — and they are wondrous 
fair — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold. 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pharos en los nidos de antano, 

Spanish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing. 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky. 

Where waiting till the west-wind blows. 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the 
leaves. 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 



And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's ne.st ' 

All things rejoice in youth and love. 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme. 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For 0, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 

The vine still clings to the mouldering 

waU, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering 

Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the 

blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease rey)ining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall. 

Some days must be dark and dreary* 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, whic? 
calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is 
just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a benison o'er the sleep- 
ing dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name im- 
parts 
Comfc-i; to those, who in the grave 
have sown 



38 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



The seed that they had garnered in their 



hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! 



more their 



Into its furrows shall we all he cast, 
In the sure faith, that we shall rise 
again 
At the great harvest, when the archan- 
gel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and 
grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal 
bloom. 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its per- 
fume 
"With that of flowers, which never 
bloomed on earth. 

"With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn 
up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we 
sow ; 
This is the field and Acre of our God, 
This is the place where human harvests 
grow ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free. 

Till at length thy rest thou flndest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me. Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
"When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
And leap onward with thy stream. 



Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

"Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee. 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends 1 love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver. 

Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'lr)aov, eX^rjaSu fxe J 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 
Odpaei, ^€ipat,<pojv€? ae / 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my 

hands ? " 
And he replies, " give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight. 
And Jesus answers, "Tiraye ■ 
'H TTtVrts crov aeaojK^ (re/ 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see. 
In darkness and in misery. 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 
'IrjaoO, eX^Tjcrdu fxe / 
Qdpcrei, ^yeipai, U7ra7e ./ 
'H TTt'cTTis aov (T^auKe <xe / 



MAIDENHOOD. 



39 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the Lrini ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen. 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart. 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round. 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned. 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned. 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers. 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the Avondrons powers. 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press, 
The leaves that giv^e it bitterness. 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles shov/, 
How bitter are the drops of woe. 
With which its brim may overflow. 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 

Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 



Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race, 

suff'ering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery, 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried 1 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
AVhere floats the fennel's bitter leaf ! 
The Battle of our Life is brief. 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision. 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shoi-e. 
That our ears perceive no more. 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

0, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hatlisnai< 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 



40 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Childhood is the iDOugh, where slumbered 
Biids and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household tires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

•* stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 



** Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasj^ing in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



MEZZO CAMMIN. 

Written at Boppard on the Rhine, August 25, 
1842, just before leaving for home. 

Half of my life is gone, and I have let 
The years slip from me and have not 

fulfided 
The aspiration of my youth, to build 
Some tower of son<;- with lofty parapet. 
Not indolence, nor ])lea5nre, nor the fret 
Of restless passions that would not be 

stilled, 
But sorrow, and a care that almost 

killed, 
Kept me from what I may accomplish 

yet; 
Though, half way up the hill, I see the 

Past 
Lying beneath me with its sounds and 

sights, — 
A city in the twilight dim and vast, 
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and 

yleaming lights, — 
And hear above me on tlie autumnal 

blast 
The cataract of Death far thundering 

from the heights, 



THE SLAVE S DREAM. 



41 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 184:'2 
[ had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since tha*- event, the poem addressed to him is no 
longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my 
admiration for a great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHAINING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as 1 closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and 
bold ; 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A. voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
'.jike the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, "Write ! " 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse I 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep. 

He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark -eyed queen 
Among her children stand ; 



They clasped his neck, they kissed his 
cheeks. 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard 
of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their 
flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caflre huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the 
reeds 
Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of 
drums. 
Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free. 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 
Nor the burning heat of day ; 

For Death had illumined the Land of 
Sleep, 
And his lifeless body lay 

A worn-out fetter, that the Soul 
Had broken and thrown away ! 



4:2 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 

In valleys green and cool ; 
And all her hope and all her pride 

Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks, 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells. 
Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall. 

And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped. 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease. 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 



Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms 
shine. 
In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous 
vine 
Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass, 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled 
grass. 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of 

shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame. 

Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fail", 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds iilled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain. 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MID- 
NIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory. 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns w^re glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 



I 



THE QUADROON GIKL. 



43 



Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 
Lie skeletons in chains, 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 
Deeper than plummet lies. 

Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims. 
Freighted with human forms. 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains. 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 

Murders, that with alTright 

Scare school-boys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

*' We are the Witnesses ! " 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 

He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening ga]^. 



Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time. 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch. 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides. 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light, 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright; 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint. 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old " ; 

The thoughtful planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains : 
For he knew whose passions gave her life. 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's 
cheek. 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



i4 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



THE WARKING. 

Beware I The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor 
and blind, 
He saw the blessed light of heaven no 
more, 
Shorn of his noble strength and forced 
to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 
His desperate hands, and in its over- 
throw 
Destroyed himself, and with him those 
who made 
■A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 



The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest 

of all, 
Expired, and thousands perished in the 

fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in tliis 
land, 
Shorn of his strength and bound in 
bonds of steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his 
hand. 
And shake the pillars of this Common- 
weal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liber-, 
ties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish 
lies. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONvE. 



Victorian ) 

Hypolito j 


. Students of AlcalA, 


The Codnt of Lara J 

Don Carlos ^ . . . . 


Gentlemen of Madrid. 


The Archbishop of Toledo. 




A Cardinal. 




Beltran Cruzado 


. Count of the Gypsies. 


Bartolome Roman 


A young Gypsy 


The Padre Cura op Guadarrama. 




Pedro Crespo .... 


. . Alcalde. 


Pancho 


Alguacil. 


Francisco 


. Lara's Servant. 


Chispa . 


Victo.iun^s Servant. 


Baltasar 


. Innkeeper. 


Preciosa 


A Gypsy Girl. 


Angelica 


. A poor Girl. 


Martina 


The Padre Cvra^s Niece 


Dolores . . .... 


. Preciosa''s Maid. 



Gypsies, Musicians, Sf^c. 



ACT I. 



Scene I. — The Count of Lara's cham- 
bers. Night. The Count in his dress- 
ing-goivn, smoking and conversing with 
Don Carlos. 

Lara. You were not at the play to- 
night, Don Carlos ; 

How happened it ? 
Don C. I had engagements else- 
where. 

Pray who was there ? 
Lara. "Wliv- all the town and court. 



The house was crowded ; and the busj 

fans 
Among the gayly dressed and perfumed 

ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the 

flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina Cell ; 
The Goblin Lady with her Phantom 

Lover, 
Her Lindo Don Diego ; Doua Sol, 
And Dona Serafina, and her cousins. 
Don C. What was the play ? 
Lara. It was a dull affair, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



45 



One of those comedies in which j'^ou see, 
As Lope says, the history of the work! 
Brought down from Genesis to the Day 

of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in the first 

act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly 

wounds, 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, 

and saying, 
"0, I am dead !" a lover in a closet, 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown 

lover, 
Who looks intently where he knows she 

is not ! 
Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced 

to-night ? 
Lara. And never better. Every foot- 
step fell. 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 
Don 0. Almost beyond the privilege 

of Avoman ! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and 

her face 
As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. 
Lara. May not a saint fall from her 

Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 
Don 0. Why do you ask ? 

Lara. Because I have heard it said 

this angel fell. 
And though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin 

Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 
Don C. You do her wrong ; indeed, 

you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 
Lara. How credulous you are ! Why 

look you, friend, 
There 's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you per- 
suade me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows 

herself, 
Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for 

money. 
And with voluptuous motions fires the 

blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 



Don G. You forget 

She is a Gypsy girl. 

Lara. And therefore woi 

The easier. 

Don C. Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I remem- 
ber 
A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and 

fair ; 
And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a- noble lord, touched by hei 

beauty, 
The wild and Avizard beauty of her race, 
Offered her gold to be what she made 

others. 
She turned upon him, with a look of 

scorn. 
And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

Don C. It proves a nobleman may be 
repulsed 
Whenhe thinks conquest easy. I believe 
That woman, in her deepest degrada- 
tion, * 
Holds something sacred, something un- 

detiled. 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher 

nature. 
And, like the diamond in the dark, re- 
tains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial 
light ! 
Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken 

the gold. 
Don C. {rising). I do not think so. 
Lara. T am sure of it. 

But why this haste ? Stay yet a little 

longer. 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 
Don G. 'T is late. I must begone, 
for if I stay 
Yon Avill not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 

Don G. No one so deaf as he who will 

not hear ! 
Lara. No one so blind as he who will 

not see ! 
Don G. And so good night. I wish 
you pleasant dreams, 
' And greater faith in woman. \Exit. 

I Lara. Greater faith ! 

I I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
I Victorian is her lover. I believe 



46 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



That I shall be to-morrow ; and there- 
after 
Another, and another, and another, 
Chasing each other through her zodiac. 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

{Enter Feancisco ivith a casket.) 

"Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me 

tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

Lara. Then I will try some other way 
to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 

Fran. Yes, my lord ; 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

Lara. What was he doing there ? 

Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

Lara. Was there another like it ? 

Fran. One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

Lara. It is Avell. 

To-morrow morning bringthat ringtome. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene II. — A street in Madrid. Enter 
Chispa, followed hy musicians, with a 
bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a 
plague on all lovers who ramble about at 
night, drinking the elements, instead of 
sleeping quietly in their beds. Every 
dead man to his cemetery, say I ; and 
every friar to his monastery. Now% here 's 
my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow- 
keeper, and to-day a gentleman ; yester- 
day a student, and to-day a lover ; and 
I must be up later than the nightingale, 
for as the abbot sings so must the 
sacristan respond. God grant he may 
soon be married, for then shall all this 
serenading cease. Ay, marry ! marry ! 
marry ! Mother, what does marry mean ? 
It means to spin, to bear children, and 
to weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth, 
there is something more in matrimony 
than the wedding-ring. {To the musi- 
cians. ) And now, gentlemen. Pax vobis- 
cum ! as the ass said to the cabbages. 
Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang 
down your heads. It is no disgrace to 
have an old father and a ragged shirt. 



Now, look you, you are gentlemen who 
lead the life of crickets ; you enjoy hun- 
ger by day and noise by night. Yet, j 
beseech you, for this once be not loud, 
but pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the 
Moon. Ycur object is not to arouse and 
terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling 
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play 
upon his instrument as if it were the only 
one in the universe, but gently, and with 
a certain modesty, according with the 
others. Pray, how may I call thy name, 
friend ? 

First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your 
service. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine 
that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not 
Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

First Mus. AVhy so ? 

Chispa. Because 1 have heard it 
said that Saturday is an unpleasant 
day with those avIio have but one shirt. 
Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, 
and if thou canst run as fast as thou 
canst drink, I should like to hunt hares 
Avith thee. A\^hat instrument is that ? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chis])a. Pray, art thou related to the 
bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a 
maravedi for playing, and ten for leav- 
ing off? 

First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other 
instruments have we ? 

Second and Third Musicians. We 
play the bandurria. 

Chispa. A jileasing instrument. And 
thou ? 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it ; it has a cheerful, 
soul-stirring sound, that soars up to my 
lady's window like the song of a sw^allow. 
And you others ? 

Other Mus. ^Ve are the singers, please 
your honor. 

Chis2m. You are too many. Do you 
think we are going to sing mass in the 
cathedral of Cordova ? Four men can ] 
make but little use of one shoe, and I see 1 
not how you can all sing in one song. 
Rut follow me along the garden wall. 
That is the way my master climbs to the 
lady's window. It is by the Vicar's 
skirts that the Devil climbs into the 
belfry. Come, follow me, and make ne 
noise. {Exuent. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



47 



Scene III. — Preciosa's chamber. She 
stands at the open window. 
Free. How slowly through the lilac- 
scented air 

Descends the tranquil moon ! Like 
thistle-down 

The vapory clouds float in the peaceful 
sky ; 

AJid sweetly from yon hollow vaults of 
shade 

The nightingales breathe out their souls 
in song. 

Ajid hark ! what songs of love, what 
soul-like sounds, 

Answer them from below ! 



Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 



Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lacly sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers Ught 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

{Enter Victorian hy the balcony. ) 

Vict. Poor little dove ! Thou trem- 

blest like a leaf ! 
Free. I am so frightened ! 'T is for 
thee I tremble ! 
1 hate to have thee climb that wall by 

night ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

Vict. None, my love, but thou. 

Prec. 'T is very dangerous ; and when 
thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come here 



Thus stealthily by night. W^here hast 

thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 
Vict. Since yesterday I have been in 
Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, sweet 

Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more 

divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by 

night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 
Prec. An honest thief, to steal but 

what thou givest. 
Vict. And we shall sit together un, 
molested, 
And words of true love pass from tongii^ 

to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to an- 
other. 
Prec. That were a life to make time 
envious ! 
I knew that thou wouldst come to me 

to-night. 
I saw thee at the play. 

Vict. Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look 
so fair ? 
Prec. Am I not always fair ? 
Vict. Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see 

thee, 
And wish that they were blind. 

Prec. I heed them not ; 

When thou art present, I see none but 
thee! 
Vict. There 's nothing fair nor beau- 
tiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it 
beautiful. 
Prec. And yet thou leavest me for 

those dusty books. 
Vict. Thou comest between me and 
those books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy 

looks, 
The canticles are changed to sarabands. 
And with the learned doctors of the 

schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

Prec. In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the 

schools 
To-morrow morning. 



48 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vict. And with whom, I pray ? 
Free. A grave and reverend Cardinal, 
and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

Viet. What mad jest 

Is this ? 

Free. It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 
Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. 

Free. Why, simply thus. 

Thou knowest the Pope has sent here 

into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 
Fiet. I have heard it whispered. 
Free. Now the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain 

behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the 

Archbishop 
Has sent for me — 

Vict. That thou mayst dance before 
them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old 

men ! 
'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

Free. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be 

stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 
Vict. The sweetest beggar tliat e'er 
asked for alms ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I 

saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

Free. " Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 

Vict. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast 

sitting 
Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. 
I Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full- 
blossomed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and with 

joy- 

The priests were singing, and the organ 

sounded, 
And then anon the great cathedral bell. 
It was the elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed to- 
gether. 
I never had been happy till that moment. 

Vict. Thou blessed angel ! 

Free. And when tliou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 



Vict. Remember him no more. Let 

not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet 

Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though I -wsa 

silent ! 
Free. I thought I ne'er should see thy 

face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 
Vict. That was the first sound in the 

song of love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a 

sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We 

hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 
Free. That is my faith. Dost thou be- 
lieve these warnings ? 
Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and 

our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce audible 

sound. 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Here- 

after, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
Free. I have felt it so, but found no 

words to say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts 

and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I 

think 
We cannot walk together in thi.«^ world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the 

stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 

Vict. Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt? What I most 

prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! i 

The intellect is finite ; but the afi"ections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the 

earth ; 
What am I ? Why, a pygmy among 

giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say 

lovest. 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the att'ections is thy world, 
Not that of man's ambition. In that 

stillness 



I 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



49 



Which most becomes a woman, calm and 

holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of lire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its 

nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou con- 
vinced ? 
Free. Yes, that I love thee, as the 
good love heaven ; 
Rut not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Vict. Loving more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my 

heart is full. 
Vict. Tiien let it overflow, and I will 
drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman {in t/ie street). Ave 
Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 
Vict. Hear'st thou that cry ? 
Prec. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Vict. As the hunter's horn 

scare tli 
hounds 

The moor-fowl from his mate. 
Prec. Pray, do not go ! 

Vict. I must away to Alcala to- 
night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think 
of thee. 
Vict, {giving her a ring). And to re- 
mind thee of my love, take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's 
blood. 
Prec. It is an ancient saying, that 
the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and pre- 
serves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the 

pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, 

alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 
Vict. What convent of barefooted 
Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology ? 

Prec. {laying her hand ux>on his 
mouth). Hush I hush .' 



Good night ! and may all holy angels 
guard thee ! 
Vict. Good night ! good night ! 
Thou art my guardian angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray 
to! 

{He descends hy the balcony. ) 
Prec. Take care, and do not hurt the&. 

Art thou safe ? 
Vict, {from the garden). Safe as m} 
love for thee ! But art thoi. 
safe? 
Others can climb a balcony by moon 

light 
As well as I. Pray shut thy window 

close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of 

night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy 
lips. 
Prec. {throwing down her liandker- 
chief). Thou silly child! Take 
this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vid. And brings to me 

Sweet fragi-ance from thy lips, as the soft 

wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the 

breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind- 
Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 
Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Th«u art the 

star 
To guide me to an anchorag-^"-. Good 

night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, 
good night ! 
Prec. Good niglit ! 
Watchman {at a distance). Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 



Scene IV. — An inn on, the road to A Icald. 
Baltasar asleep on a bench. Enter 
Chispa. 

Chispa. And here we are, half-way to 
Alcala, between cocks and midnight. 
Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! The 
lights out, and the landlord asleep. 
Hold ! ancient Baltasar ! 

Bal. {waking). Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one- 
eyed Alcalde in a town without inhabi- 
tants. Bring a light, and let me have 
supper. 



50 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Bal. AVhere is your master ? 
^ Cldspa-. Do not trouble yourself about 
him. We have stopped a moment to 
breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses to 
walk up and down in the open air, look- 
ing into the sky as one who hears it 
rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, 
vou know. But be quick, for I am in a 
hurry, and every man stretches his legs 
according to the length of his coverlet. 
What have we here ? 

Bal. {setting a light on the table). 
Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa {eating). Conscience of Porta- 
Jegre ! Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, 
with a roasted pear in it. 

Chispa {drinking). Ancient Baltasar, 
amigo ! You know how to cry wine and 
sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing 
but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, with a 
tang of the swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon 
and Judas, it is all as I say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint 
Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such 
thing. Moreover, your supper is like the 
hidalgo's dinner, very little meat and a 
great deal of tablecloth. 
Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 
Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have 
your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I 
not ask Don Victorian in, to take a 
draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chispa. No ; you might as well say, 
" Don't -you -want -some ?" to a dead 
man. 
Bal. Why does he go so often to 
Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he 
eats no supper. He is in love. Were ' 
you ever in love, Baltasar ? 

Bal. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. It has been the torment of my 
life. 

Chisjm. AVhat ! are you on fire, too, 
old hay -stack ? Why, we shall never be 
able to put you out. 

Vict, {without). Chispa ! 
Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for 
the cocks are crowing. 

Vict. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 
Chispa. Ea ! Sehor. Come with me, 
ancient Baltasar, and Innng water for the 
horses. I will pay for the su])per to- 
morrow. [Exeunt. 



Scene V. — Victorian's chamhers at 
Alcald. Hypolito asleep in an arm- 
chair. He awakes slowly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, 

sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. sleep, sweet 

sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught! 
The candles have burned low ; it must 

be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray 

Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find 

him 
Is his own ceU. Here's his guitar, that 

seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a 

song. 

{He plays and sings.) 



Padre Francisco ! 
Padre Francisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 

{Enter Victorian.) 

Vict. Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypo- 
lito ! 
Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hy- 
polito ? 
Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; for, 
if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
1 will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

H]ip. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come 

here, my child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 
Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; 
so full 
Thnt I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play ; the cur- 
tain 
Pises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne i 
Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, 
thou shouldst say ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



51 



Those that remained, after the six were 

burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine 

together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou re- 
member 
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 

Hy}}. Thou meanest Preciosa. 
, Vict. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted me 
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She 's in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Vict. And I 'm in love. 

HyiJ. And therefore in Madrid when 

thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

Vict. pardon me, my friend, 

If I so long have kept this secret from thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards such 

treasures. 
And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant 

for us. 
Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in 

love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than a 

cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment. Give a 

Spaniard 
His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray 

tell me, lover, 
How speeds thy wooing ? Is the maiden 

coy? 
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; 
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin 

Mary, 

Ave! cujus calcem dare 
Nee centenni cmnmendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Vict. Pray, do laot jest ! This is no 
time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

Hyp. Seriously enamored ? 

What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy ? Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou ? 

V'i-ci' I mean it honestly. 

Hijp. Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 

Vict. Why not ? 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bar- 
tolome, 
If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova." 



Vict. They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her. 

Vict. In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was 

born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I 'II stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning 

star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not 
laugh. 
Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon 
thy foreliead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

Vict. Out upon thee 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray tell 

me. 
Is tliere no virtue in the world ? 

Hyp. Not much. 

What, think' st thou, is she doing at this 

moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her ? 

Vict. She lies asleep, 

And from her parted lips lier gentle breath 
Comes like the fragi'ance from the lips of 

flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and on her 

breast 
The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tidt of 

dreams. 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

Hyp. Which means, in prose, 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little 
open ! 
Vict. 0, would I had the old magician's 
glass 
To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! 
H]ip. And wouldst thou venture ? 
Vict. Ay, indeed I would ! 

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou 
e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word, 
now ? 
Vict. Yes ; all the awful mystery of 
Life ! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 
That could we, by some spell of magic, 

change 
The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
In the same attitudes they now are in, 
What fearful glances downward might 

we cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 



52 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



What groups should we behold about the 

death-bed, 
Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 
What joyful welcomes, and what sad 

farewells ! 
What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 
What visible joy or anguish in those 

cheeks ! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal 

shows ! 
What^oes, like gladiators, fierce and 

struggling ! 
What lovers with their marble lips to 

gether ! 
Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were 

in love. 
That is the very point I most should 

dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of 

thine, 
Might tell a tale were better left untold. 
For instance, they might show us thy 

fair cousin. 
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 
Of love and anger, like the maid of 

Colchis, 
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 
Having won that golden fleece, a woman's 

love, 
Desertest for this Glance. 

Vict. Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed 

another. 
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying. 
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 
Hyp. {rising). And so, good night ! 

Good morning, I should say. 
{Clock strikes three. ) 
Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace 

of Time 
Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 
And so, once more, good night ! We '11 

speak more largely 
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 
Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! 

[Exit. 

Vict. Good night ! 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

{Throxos himself into the arm-chair which 

Hypolito has left, and lays a large hook 

open upon his knees.) 

Must read, or sit in revery and watch 
The changing color of the waves that 
break 



Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind ! 
Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 
Making night glorious with your smile, 

where are ye ? 
0, who shall give me, now that ye are 

gone. 
Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 
Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 
Or teach me where that wondrous man- 
drake grows 
Whose magic root, torn from the earth 

Avith groans. 
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends 

away, 
And make the mind prolific in its fancies \ 
I have the wish, but want the will, to 

act ! 
Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose 

words 
Have come to light from the swift river 

of Time, 
Like Eoman swords found in the Tagus' 

bed. 
Where is the strength to wield the arms 

ye bore ? 
From the barred visor of Antiquity 
Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 
As from a mirror ! All -the means of 

action — 
The shapeless masses, the materials — 
Lie everywhere about us. AVhat we need 
Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 
That fire is genius ! The rude peasant 

sits 
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 
With charcoal uncouth figures on the 

wall. 
The son of genius conies, foot-sore with 

travel, 
And begs a shelter from the inclement 

night. 
He takes the charcoal from the peasant's 

hand. 
And, by the magic of his touch at once 
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, 
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 
It gleams a diamond ! Even thus trans- 
formed. 
Rude popular traditions and old tales 
Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wan- 
dering bard, 
Who had but a night's lodging for his 

pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than thosQ 

of Fame, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



53 



Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of 

the heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit 

rises 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, 
Ere the enamored knight can touch her 

robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul of man. 
Like the enamored knight beside the 

fountain, 
\Yaits for upon the margin of Life's 

stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark 

waters, 
Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how 

many- 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows 

evermore. 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star, 
7iave found the bright ideal of my 

dreams. 
Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel. 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can 

feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous 

eyes. 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that 

bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my 

name ! 
{Gradually sinks asleep.) 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Preciosa's chamher. Morning. 
Preciosa and Angelica. 

Free. Why will you go so soon ? Stay 

yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with 

a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, 

tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from 

me. 
What is your landlord's name ? 
Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Free. The Count of Lara ? O, beware 

that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with 

him ! 



And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

Ang. You know him, then ! 

Free. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a 

blemish. 
Beware of him ! 

Ang. Alas ! what can I do 1 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word 

of kindness, % 

Come whence it may, is welcome to tha 

poor. 
Free. Make me your friend. A girl 

so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of her 

own sex. 
What is your name ? 

Ang. Angelica. 

Free. That name 

Was given you, that you might be an 

angel 
To her who bore you ! When your in- 
fant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were her 

angel. 
0, be an angel still ! She needs that 

smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you i I am a poor 

Whom chance has taken from the public 

streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own 

virtue. 
That is the charm which has protected 

me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart ! It is my guardian 
angel. 
Ang. {rising). I thank you for this 

counsel, dearest lady. 
Free. Thank me by following it. 
Ang. Indeed I will. 

Free. Pray, do not go. I have much 

more to say. 
Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not, 

leave her. 
Free. Some other time, then, when 
we meet again. 
You must not go away with words alone. 

(Gives her a purse.) 

Take this. Would it were more. 

Ang. I thank you, lady. 

Free. No thanks. To-morrow come 
to me again. 



54 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



i dance to-night, — perhaps for the last 

time. 
But what 1 gain, I promise shall be yours, 
If that can save you from the Count of 
Lara. 
Ang. 0, ray dear lady ! how shall I 
be grateful 
'For so much kindness ? 

Prec. 1 deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 
Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

Prec. Farewell. 

Remember that you come again to- 
morrow. 
Ang. I will. And may the Blessed 
Virgin guard you. 
And all good angels. \_Exit. 

Prec. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor ; for they have need of 

angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my bas- 

quina. 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing 

dress, 
And my most precious jewels ! Make 

me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a 

prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Ave Maria ! 

Prec. God ! my evil genius ! 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 

Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 

Prec. "What is thy will with me ? 
Cruz. Gold ! gold ! 

Prec. I gave thee yesterday ; I have 

no more. 
Cruz. The gold of the Busne, — give 

me his gold ! 
Prec. I gave the last in charity to- 
day. 
CriLz. That is a foolish lie. 
Prec. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art 
not my child ! 
Hast thou given 'gold away, and not to 

me ? 
Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 

Prec. To one 

Who needs it more. 
Cruz. No one can need it more. 

Prec. Thou art not poor. 
Cruz. What, 1, who lurk about 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome I 
lanes ; 



I, who am housed worse than the galley 

slave ; 
I, who am fed worse than the kennelle'. 

hound ; 
I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran 

Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! 

Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and 

strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what 

wouldst thou more ? 
Cruz. The gold of the Busne ! give 

me his gold ! 
Prec. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once 

for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in 

peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and erelong 
Thou shalt have more. 

Ciniz. And if I have it not. 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in lich 

chambers. 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food. 
And live in idleness ; but go with me, 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets, 
And wander wild again o'er field and 

fell; 
For here we stay not long. 
Prec. What ! march again ? 

Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the 

crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its 

gates ! 
Air, — I M'ant air, and sunshine, and 

blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face. 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet. 
And no walls but the far-otf mountain- 
tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once more 

myself, ( 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 
Prec. God speed thee on thy march ! 

— I cannot go, 
Cruz. Remember who I am, and who 

thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one tiling 

more, 
Bartolome Roman — 
Prec. {with emotion). 0, I beseech 

thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



55 



One feeling of compasbion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 
I do not love him !- On my knees I beg 

thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

Cruz. child, child, child ! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal 

it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee 

ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. \^Exit. 

Free. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart 1 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do. 
Befall what may ; they cannot take that 

from me. 



Scene. II — A room in tlie Archbishop's 
Palace. The ARCHBISHOP and a Cardi- 
nal seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched 
the public morals. 
And that our age is grown corrupt and 

rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to Eome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time. 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on the 

stage. 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And further. 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

Card. I trust forever. 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public 

dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight 

occasion, 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we 
cure. 



As Panem et Circenses was tne cry 
Among the Roman populace of old, 
So Pan y Toros is ihe cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 
And therefore ha~'e induced your Grace 

to see 
These national dances, ere we interdict 

them. 

{Enter a Ser.iant. ) 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with he> 
the musicians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, wait 
without. 
Arch, Bid them come in. Now shfalJ 
your eyes behold 
In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

{Enter Preciosa, with a mantle thrown 
over her head. She advances slowly, in 
modest, half -timid attitude.) 

Card, (aside). 0, what a fair and 
ministeiing angel 
Was lost to heaven when this sweet 
woman fell ! 
Free, {kneeling before the Archbish- 
op). I have obeyed the order of 
your Grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 
Card, {aside). Her acts are modest, 
and her words discreet ! 
I did not look for this ! Come hither, 

child. 
Is thy name Preciosa ? 

Prec. Thus I am called. 

Caid. That is a Gypsy name. Who 

is thy father ? 
Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the 

Cales. 
Arch. I have a dim remembrance of 
that man : 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun -burnt Ishmael ! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Prec. Yes ; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can remember 

still 
The river, and the mountains capped 

with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the 
street ; 



56 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



The smuggler's horse, the brigand and 

the shepherd ; 
The march across the moor ; the halt at 

noon ; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that 

lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, further 

back, 
As in a dream or in some former life, 
Gardens and j)alace walls. 

^rch. 'T is the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was 

pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see 
thee dance. 
Prec. Your Grace shall be obeyed. 
[She lays aside her mantilla. The music 
of the cachucha is played, and the dance 
begins. The Archbishop and the Car- 
dinal look on toith gravity and an oc- 
casional froivn ; then make sigyis to each 
other ; and, as the dance continues, he- 
come TTiore and more pleased and excited ; 
and at length rise from their seats, throw 
their caps in the air, and applaud vehe- 
mently as the scene closes. ) 

Scene III. — The Prado. A long ave- 
nue of trees leading to the gate of Ato- 
cha. On the right the dome and spires of 
a convent. A fountain. Evening, Don 
Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

Don C. Hold ! good evening, Don 

Hypolito. 
Hyp. And a good evening to my 
friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this 

way. 
I was in search of you. 
Don C. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's 
Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judg- 
ment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 

Don C. I do ; 

But what of that ? 
Hyp. I am that wretched man. 

Don C. You mean to tell me yours 

have risen empty ? 
Hyp. And amen ! said v^y Cid the 

Campeador. 
Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 
Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, 

Wbioh, with due interest — 
Z-t'A C. {giving his purse). Whatj am 
I a Jew 



To put my moneys out at n^ury 'i 
Here is my purse. 

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse. 
Made by the hand of some fail- Madri- 

lena ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 
Don 0. No, 't is at your service. 

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, 
good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind me 

often, 
I am the debtor of mv friend. 

Don C. " But tell me. 

Come you to-day from Alcala ? 
Hyp. This moment. 

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave 

Victorian ? 
Hijp. Indifferent well ; that is to say, 
not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the 

glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen 

catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

Don C. And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Don C. Why so ? 

Hijp. For many reasons. First and 
foremost. 
Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination ; 
A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 
And, like a lily on a river floating, 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts ! 
Don C. A common thing with poets. 
But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some 

woman. 
Some living woman, — not a mere 

ideal, — 
]\Iust wear the outward semblance of his 

thought. 
Who is it ? Tell me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman ! 

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn 

her, 
As pious priests adorn some favorite 

saint 
With gems and gold, until at length she 

gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, you 

know. 
And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 
Don C, Well, well ! who is this doll? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



57 



Hyp. Why, who do you think ? 

Don C. His cousin Violante. 
Hyp. Guess again. 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last 

storm 
He threw her overboard, with all her 
ingots. 
Don C. I cannot guess ; so tell me 

who it is. 
Hyp. Not I. 

Don a Why not ? 

Uyp. {mysteriously). Why? Because 
Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Sala- 
manca ! 
Don C. Jesting aside, who is it ? 
Hyp. Preciosa. 

Don 0. Impossible ! The Count of 
Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 

Hyp. Did I say she was ? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 
Whose name was JVIessalina, as I think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist ! I see him yonder through the 

trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 
Don G. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by some 
wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be 
hidden. 

{Enter Victorian in front.) 

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is 
holy ground ! 
These groves are sacred ! 1 behold thee 

walking 
(Jnder these shadowy trees, where we 

have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm 

from thee, 
And is forever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly 

air. 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim 

Commander 
Who conies to sup with Juan in the 
play. 
Don 0. What ho ! Victorian ! 
Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Vict. Hold ! amigos I Faith, I did 
not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos ? 

Don C. At your service ever. 



Vict. How is that young and green- 
eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of ? 

Don 0. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay de mi .' 

Vict. You are much to blame for let- 
ting hci- go back. 
A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we some- 
times see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of gi'een eyes, 
Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so ? 

Hyp. I think 

The slightest shade of green would be 

becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Why ? 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always 

jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all ? 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don 

Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy 

guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of 

Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labor for his 
pains. 
Hyp. He does not think so, and Don 
Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How 's this, Don Carlos ? 

Don G. Some hints of it I heard from 
his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's vir- 
tue. 
As a gay man might speak. 

Vict. Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, 

no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you 

jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, fare- 
well ! [Exit. 



58 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Hyp. Now what a coii is here ! The 

Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he 

rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! hot-headed 

youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. Let us 

join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. 

There 
We shall find merrier company ; I see 
The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 
And fifty fans,, that beckon me already. 

\_Eo(xunt. 

Scene IV. — Preciosa's chamber. She 
is sitting, with a hook in her hand, near 
a table, on which are flowers. A bird 
singing in its cage. The Count of Lara 
enters behind unperceived. 

Free, {reads). 

All are sleeping, Aveary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so rest- 
less ! 

( The bird sings. ) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley 
coat. 

That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon 
singest. 

Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 

I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, Aveary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching. 
Evermore sliall l<eep thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speak est truly, poet ! and me- 
thinks 

More hearts are breaking in this world of 
ours 

Than one would say. In distant vil- 
laijes 

And solitudes remote, where winds have 
wafted 

The barbed seeds of love, or birds of pas- 
sage 

Scattered them in their flight, do they 
take root, 

And grow in silence, and in silence per- 
ish. 



Senora, pardon me 



Who hears the falling of the forest leaf ? 
Or who takes note of every flower that 

dies? 
Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come, 
Dolores ! 

{Turns to lay down her book, and perceives 
the Count. ) 

Ha! 

Lara. 

Free. How 's this ? Dolorc 
Lara. Pardon me — 

Prec. Dolores ! 

Lara. Be not alarmed ; I found no 
one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold — 
Prec. {turning her hack upon him). 
You are too bold ! 
Eetire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me 

speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 
Prec. {turning toward him with indig- 
nation). Begone ! begone ! 
You are the Count cf Lara, but your 

deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian 

honor. 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong ? 

shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, a 

nobleman. 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love, 
And think to buy my honor with your 

gold! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn 

you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to 

me ! 
Begone, I say ! 
Lara. Be calm ; I will not harm you 
Prec. Because you dare not. 
Lara. I dare anything \ 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived in 

me. 
In this false world, we do not always 

know 
Who are our friends and who our ene- 
mies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

Prec. Iftothif 

I owe the honor of the present visit, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



59 



fou might have spared the coming. 
Having spoken, 

Once more I beg you, leave me to my- 
self. 
Lara. I thought it but a friendly part 
to tell you 

What strange reports are current here in 
town. 

For my own self, 1 do not credit them ; 

But there are many who, not knowing 
you. 

Will lend a readier ear. 
Prec. There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the 
duty 

Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy ^vith your name. 

Prec. Alas ! 

I 've no protectors. I am a poor girl, 

Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 

They wound me, yet I cannot shield 
myself. 

I give no cause for these reports. I live 

Retired ; am visited by none. 
Lara. By none ? 

0, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 
Prec. How mean you ? 

Lara. Nay, nay ; 1 will not wound 
your gentle soul 

By the report of idle tales. 
Prec. Speak oat ! 

What are these idle tales ? You need 
not spare me. 
Lara. I will deal frankly with you. 
Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks toward 
the street, 

A.nd this into the Prado, does it not ? 

In yon high house, beyond the garden 
wall, — 

YoM see the roof there just above the 
trees, — 

There lives a friend, who told me yester- 
day. 

That on a certain night, — be not of- 
fended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Cihnb to your chamber window. You 
are silent ! 

I would not blame you, being young and 
fair — 

{He tries to embrace her. She starts hack, 
and draws a dagger from her bosom. ) 

Prec. Beware ! beware ! 1 am a Gypsy 
girl 1 



Lay not your hand upon me. One step 
nearer 

And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 

Fear not. 

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart 

In whose strength I can trust. 

Lai^a. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am youi 
friend, — 

And by a single word can put a stop 

To all those idle tales, and make your 
name 

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, 

Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 

1 love you even to madness, and that 
love 

Has driven me to break the rules of cus- 
tom, 

And force myself unasked into your 
presence. 

(Victorian enters behind. ) 

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is 
not the place 

Foi; such as you are. It becomes you 
not 

To kneel before me. I am strangely 
moved 

To see one of your rank thus low and 
humbled; 

For your sake I will put aside all an- 
ger, 

All unkind feeling, all dislike, and 
speak 

In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, 

And as my heart now prompts me. I 
no more 

Will hate you, for all hate is painful to 
me. 

But if, without offending modesty 

And that reserve which is a woman's 
glory, 

T may speak freely, I will teach my heart 

To love you. 

Lara. sweet angel ! 

Prec. Ay, in truth. 

Far better than you love j^ourself or me. 
Lara. Give me some sign of this, — 
the slightest token. 

Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Prec. Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 

Misunderstand me not ! Be not de- 
ceived ! 

The love wherewith I lore you is not 
such 



60 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



As you would offer me. For you come 1 

here I 

To take from me the only thing I have, i 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have 

friends | 

And kindred, and a thousand pleasant , 

hopes I 

That fill your heart with happiness ; 

but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one 

treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and 

for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make 

me 
What you would most despise. sir, 

such love. 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true 

love. 
Indexed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your 

good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste 

desires, 
And bids you look into your hearty and 

see 
How you do wrong that better nature in 

you, 

And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only 

love you. 
I would not take j^our honor, but restore 

it. 
And in return I ask but some slight 

mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love 

me. 
As you confess you do, let me thus 
With tliis embrace — 

Vict, {rushing forivard). Hold ! hold ! 
This is too much. 
\VTiat means this outrage ? 

Lara. First, what rigl t have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 
Vict. I too am noble, and you are no 
more ! 
Out of my sight ! 
Lara, Are you the master here ? 

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when 
the wrong of otjiers 
Gives me the right ! 
Prec. {to Lara). Go ! I beseech you, 

go ! 
Vict. I shall have business with you, 
Count, anon ! 



Lara. You cannot come too soon ? 

Prcc. Victorian t 

0, we have been betrayed ! 

Vict. Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not 
we ! 
Prec. Dost thou imagine — 
Vict. I imagine nothing ; 

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Prcc. speak not in that tone \ 

It wounds me deeply. 

Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter, 

Prec. Too well thou knowest the pres- 
ence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 
Prec. I did not heed his words. 
Vict. Indeed thou didst, 

And answej-edst them with love. 

Prec. Hadst thou heard all — 

Vict. I heard enough. 
Prec. Be not so angry with me. 

Vict. I am not angry ; I am very 

calm. 
Prec. If thou wilt let me speak — 
Vict. N'T-y? say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou ar* 

false ! 
I do not like these Gypsy marriages J 
Where is the ring I gave thee ? 

Prec. In m)^ casket. 

Vict. There let it rest ! I would noi 

have thee wear it : 

I thought thee sjiotless, and thou arl 

polluted ! 

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness — 

Vict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy 

lips! 
They are forsworn ! 

Prec. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Vict. I gave up all for thee ; myself, 

my fame, 

My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 

And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go 

on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour. 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian 
was ! 
{He casts her from him and rushes out.) 
Prec. And this from thee ! 
{Scene closes.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



61 



Scene V. -— The Count of Lara's rooms. 
Enter the Count. 

Lara. There 's nothing in this world 
so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is 

hate ! 
I *ve learned to hate, and therefore am 

revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude with ine ! 
The fire that I have kindled — 
{Enter Francisco. ) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan ? 

Fran. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 
Lara. And the Duke of Lermos ? 

Fran. Was not at home. 
Lara. How with the rest ? 

Fran. I 've found 

The men you wanted. They will all be 

there. 
And at the given signal raise a whirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Pre- 

ciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall 

not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my 
cloak and sword. [^Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — A retired spot beyond the 
city gates. Enter Victorian and Hy- 

POLITO. 

Vict. shame ! shame ! Why do 

I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine 

mocks me. 
And voices, and familiar sights and 

sound:; 
Cry, "Hide thyself!" what a thin 

partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world 

the knowdedge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in 

darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears 

are windows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. 

Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 
Hyp. Did I not caution thee ? Did I 

not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 



Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be 
wrong. 
We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 
Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, lov- 
ing him. 
Vid. She does not love him ! 'T is 

for gold ! for gold ! 
Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the pub- 
lic streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave 

him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 
Vict. She had that ring from me ! 
God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is 

passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I 've seen him play with swords ; it is 

his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident, 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here 
he comes. 

{Enter 'Lh.ViK folloived by Francisco.) 

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 
Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

Lara. I trust I have not kept you 

long in waiting. 
Vict. Not long, and yet too long. 

Are you prepared ? 
Lara. I am. 

Hyp. It grieves me much to 

see this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no 

way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your 
swords ? 
Vict. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too 

long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these 

tongues of steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir 
Count. 

Tliey fight. Victorian disarms the 
Count.) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now 
withhold me 

From sending your vile soul to its ac- 
count ? 
Lara. Strike ! strike ! 



62 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Vid. You are disarmed. 

I will not kill you. 
1 will not murder you. Take up your 
sword. 

Francisco hands the Count his sword, 
and Hypolito interposes.) 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! 
The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and 

Victorian 
A. generous one, as ever. Nowbe friends, 
'^ut up your swords ; for, to speak frank- 
ly to you. 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lara. 1 am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words. 

Spoken in the heat oi blood, have led to 

this. 

Vict. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. 1 understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your 

path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged to 

you. 
Never would I have sought to win her 

from you. 
The truth stands now revealed ; she has 

been false 
To both of us. 

Fid. Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her ; 
she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left 
alone. 
Vict. Say, can you prove this tb me ? 
0, y)luck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into 

madness ! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not 

so, 
Francisco ? 
Fran. Ay, my lord. 
Lara. If further proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave 
me. 
Vict. Pray let me see that ring ! It 
is the same ! 

[Throws it upon the ground, and trample'} 
upon it.) 



Thus may she perish who once wore that 

ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus 

trample 
Her memory in the dust ! Count of 

Lara, 
We both have been abused, been much 

abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frank^ 

ness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours 

gave me pain. 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I 

thank you. 
I now can see the folly I have done. 
Though 't is, alas ! too late. So fare you 

well! 
To-night I leave this hateful town forever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more 

farewell ! 
Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

[Exeunt Victorian and Hypolito. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! 
Thus have I cleared the field of my worst 

foe ! 
I have none else to fear ; the fight is 

done, 
The citadel is stoiTned, the victory won ! 
[Exit with Francisco. 



Scene VII. — A lane in the suburbs. 
Night. Enter Cruzado and Bar- 

TOLOME. 

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedi- 
tion failed. But where wast thou for 
the most part ? 

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, 
near San Ildefonso, 

Cruz. And thou briugest nothing 
back with thee ? Didst thou rob no one 

Bart. There was no one to rob, save 
a party of .students from Segovia, who 
looked as if they would rob us ; and a 
jolly little friar, who had nothing in his 
pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee 
back to Madrid ? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee 
here ? 

Cruz. Preciosa. 

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast 
thou forgotten thy promise ? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed 
yet. Wfiit patiently. The giii shall be 
thine. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



63 



Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, 
— the son of a Busne harlot. He goes 
in and out, and speaks with her alone, 
and I must stand aside, and wait his 
pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt 
have thy revenge. When the time 
3omes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 

Cruz. Come this way. But thou 
wilt not find her. She dances at the 
play to-night. 

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. 
\_Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. — The Theatre. The or- 
chestra plays the cachucha. Sound of 
castanets behind the scenes. The curtain 
rises, and discovers Preciosa in the at- 
titude of covvinencing the dance. The 
cachucha. Tumult ; hisses ; cries of 
"Brava / " and " Afuera ! " She falters 
and pauses. The music stops. General 
confusion. Preciosa faints. 

Scene IX. — The Count of Lara's 
chambers. Lara and his friends at 
supper. 

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many 
thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this 

matter. 
Pray fill your glasses. 

Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, 

How pale she looked, when first the 

noise began. 
And then stood still, with her large eyes 

dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her 

bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

Don L. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and 
this very night 
I mean to visit her. 
Don J. Will you serenade her ? 

Lara. No music ! no more music ! 
Don L. Why not music ? 

It softens many hearts. 

Lara. Not in the humor 

She now is in. Music would madden 
her. 
Don J. Try golden cymbals. 
Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero ; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 



Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have 
bribed her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine, 
A bumper and away ; for the night 

wears. 
A health to Preciosa. 

{They rise and drink.) 
All. Preciosa. 

Lara {holding up his glass). Thou 
bright and flaming minister of 
Love ! 
Thou wonderful magician ! who hast 

stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of 

passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery 

tongue. 
Her precious name ! never-more hence « 

forth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never* 

more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

( Drinks and dashes the goblet doion. ) 

Don J. Ite ! missa est I 

{Scene closes.) 

Scene X. — Street and garden wall. 
Night. ^ Enter Cruzado and Bar^ 
tolome. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and 
above it, yonder, is her house. The 
window in which thou seest the light 
is her window. But we will not go ii^ 
now. 

Bart. Why not? 

Cruz. Because she is not at home. 

Bart. No matter ; we can Avait. But 
how is chis ? The gate is bolted. 
{Sound of guitars and voices in a iieigh' 
boring street.) Hark! There comes her 
lover with his infernal serenade ! Hark ! 



Good night ! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 
Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 

Good night ! Good night, beloved. 
While I count the weary hours. 

Criiz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 



64 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



SONG {coming nearer). 
Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent- clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this 

way ! 
Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing 

down the street. 

SONG {dying away). 
The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Bart. FolloAV that ! follow that ! 
Come with me. Puss ! puss ! 
{Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the 

Count of Lara and gentlemen, xoith 

Francisco. ) 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the 
wall, Francisco, 

And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, 
and over. 

Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me 
scale 

Yon balcony. How now ? Her light 
still burns. 

Move warily. Make fast the gate, Fran- 
cisco. 

[Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzado and Bar- 

TOLOME.) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. 
Hark! I hear them in the garden. 
{Tries the gate.) Bolted again ! Vive 
Cristo ! Follow me over the wall. 
( They climb the wall. ) 



Scene XI. — P r e c i o s a' s bedchamber. 
Midnight. She is sleejnng in cm arm- 
chair, in an undress. Dolores watch- 
ing her. 

Dot. She sleeps at last ! 

{Opens the tvinduw, and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Prec. {in her sleep). I must go hence ! 
Give me my cloak ! 
Dal. He comes ! I hear his footsteps. 



Prec. Go tell chem that I cannot 
dance to-night ; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the 

fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go 

hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

{Signal from tlie garden.) 
Dol. {from the window). Who's there ? 
Voice {from, below). A friend. 

Dol. 1 will undo the door. Wait till 

I come. 
Prec. I must go hence. I pray you 
do not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman 

thus ! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things foj' 

you. 
I 'm ready now, — give me my casta 

nets. 
Where is Victorian ? Oh, those hateful 

lamps ! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock 

at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save 
me ! save me ! 

{She icakes.) 
How late is it, Dolores ? 

Dol. It is midniglit 

Prec. We must be patient. Smooth 
this pillow forme. 
{She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, 
and voices.) 

Voice. Muera ! 

Another Voice. villains ! villains ! 
Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that ! 

Lara. 0, I am wounded ! 

Dol. {shutting the window). Jesu 
Maria ! 



ACT TIL 

Scene I. — A cross-road through a toood 
In the background a distant tillage spire. 
Victorian and Hypolito, as travellin(, 
students, roith guitars, sitting under the 
trees. Hypolito plays and sings. 



Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue 1 

Most mitrue 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



65 



To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon lias the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Fict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his 
shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes 

Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 
Ri/p. Thinking to walk in those Arca- 
dian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against 
the wall. 

SONG (continued). 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend. 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats, 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Fict. A very pretty song. I thank 

thee for it. 
Ryp. It suits thy case. 
Fict. Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it ? 
ffyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Fict. In truth, a pretty song. 
Htjp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in 

earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Fict. I will forget her ! All dear rec- 
ollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within 

a book,. 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the 

winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the 

world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name, 
A-nd she will say, "He was indeed my 

friend ! " 
0, would I were a soldier, not k scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafening beat 

of drums. 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated 

trumpet, 
^The din of arms, the onslaught and the ' 
storm, 



And a swift death, might make me deal 

forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 
Hijj^. Then let that foolish heart up- 
braid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to 

conquer. 
Fict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in 

vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 
That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will 

not sink. 
There rises from below a -hand that 

grasps it. 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing 

voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's 

burden. 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the 

wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty 

health 
To talk of dying. 

Fict. Yet T fain would die ! 

To go through life, unloving and un- 
loved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the 

soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild 

impulse, 
And stmggle after something we have 

not 
And cannot have ; the eff'ort to be 

strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and 

smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath 

our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead 

alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

Fict. It cannot be too soon ; for I am 

weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and 

friends as strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray false 

hearts ; 
And througli the mazes of the crowd wp 

chase 



66 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Rome form of loveliness, that smiles, and 
beckons, 

And cheats us with fair words, only to 
leave us 

A- mockery and a jest ; maddened, — con - 
fused, — 

Not knowing friend from foe. 
Hyp. Why seek to know ? 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy 
youth ! 

Take each fair mask for what it gives it- 
self, 

Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. ' I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no 
longer 

Comforts my soul. I am a wretched 
man, 

Much like a poor and shipwrecked mar- 
iner, 

Who, struggling to climb up into the 
boat. 

Has both his bruised and bleeding hands 
cut off, 

And sinks again into the weltering sea. 

Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy sal- 
vation. 

Above thy head, through rifted clouds, 
there shines 

A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy 
star ! 

{Sound of a milage hell in the distance.) 

Vict. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacris- 
tan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder village 

belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and 

wide 
Over the red roofs of the cottages, 
And bids the laboring hind a-field, the 

shepherd, 
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 
And all the crowd in village streets, 

stand still, 
A.nd breathe a prayer unto the blessed 

Virgin ! 
Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a 

league from hence 
The village lies. 

Vict. This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows 

sail 
Across the ninning sea, now green, now 

blue, 



And, like an idle mariner on the main, 

Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten 

on. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Public square in the village 
of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still 
tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their 
hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In 
front, a group of Gypsies. The hell 
rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. 
Enter Pancho, folloxoed by Pedro Cres- 

PO. 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds 
and Gypsy thieves ! 

Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 
Pedro C. Keep silence all ! I have 
an edict here 

From our most gracious lord, the King 
of Spain, 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 

Which I shall publish in the market- 
place. 

Open your ears and listen ! 

{Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his 
cottage.) 

Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict 
read. 
Padre C. Good day, and God be with 

you ! Pray, what is it ? 
Pedro C. An act of banishment 
against the Gypsies ! 

{Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) 

Pancho. Silence ! 

Pedro C. {reads). " I hereby order and 
command, 

That the Egyptian and Chaldean stran- 
gers, 

Known by the name of Gypsies, shall 
henceforth 

Be banished from the realm, as vaga- 
bonds 

And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 

Any be found within our kingdom's 
bounds, 

They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 

The second time, shall have their ears 
cut off ; 

The third, be slaves for life to him who 
takes them, 

burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the 
King." 

Vile miscreants and creatures unbap- 
tized ! 

Yo' hear the ' aw ! Obey and disappear \ 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



67 



Paiicho. And if in seventy days you 
are not gone, 
Dead or alive 1 make you all my slaves. 

{The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing 
signs of fear and discontent. Pancho 
follows. ) 

Padre C. A righteous law ! A very 
righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 
Pedro C. I thank you heartily. 

( They seat themselves on a bench at the 
Padre Cura's door. Sound of guitars 
heard at a distance, approaching dur- 
ing the dialogue which follows. ) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know 
all things, — 

How came these Gypsies into Spain ? 
Padre C. Why, look you ; 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 

And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir 
Alcalde, 

As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 

And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 

There are a hundred marks to prove a 
Moor 

Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gyp- 
sies. 

They never marry, never go to mass. 

Never baptize their children, nor 
Lent, 

Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — 
nor — 
Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substan- 
tial reasons all ! 

No matter for the other ninety-five. 

They should be burnt, I see it plain 
enough. 

They should be burnt. 

[Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing.) 

Padre 0. And pray, whom have we 

here ? 
Pedro C. More vagrants ! By Saint 

Lazarus, more vagrants ! 
Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! Is 

this Guadarrama ? 
Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good 

evening to you. 
Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the 

village ; 
And, judging from your dress and rever- 
end mien, 
iTou must be he. 
Padre C. I am. Pray, what's 

your pleasure ? 



Hyp. We are poor students, travel- 
ling in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 
{Touching the loooden spoon in his hat- 
band. 
Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and 

have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! by the 

mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 

And there 's no law against them. Sir, 

your servant. [Exit. 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo, 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your face, 

I said within myself, * ' This is the man ! " 

There is a certain something in your 

looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious some- 
thing, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mis- 
taken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man, 
In fine, as one of us. 

Vict, (aside). What impudence ! 

Hjp. As we approached, I said to my 
companion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my 

words ! " 
Meaning your Grace. " The other man, " 

said I, 
" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 
Must be the sacristan." 

Padre C. Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the al- 
calde ! 
Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish me ! 
His air 
Was not so full of dignity and gi'ace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre C. That is true. 

He's out of humor with some vagrant 

Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neigh- 
borhood. 
There 's nothing so undignified as anger. 
Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our 
boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre C. I pray you ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble 

roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars ; and Eiaollil 

7nores, 
Nee sinit esse f eras, Cicero says. 



'^8 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not ? 
Padre C. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are 
the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it 

Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 

Padre C. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. 

[Exeunt. 



Scene III. — A room in the Padre Cuba's 
Enter tlie Padre and Hypolito. 



Padre C. So then, Senor, you come 
from Alcala. 
( am glad to hear it. It was there I 
studied. 
Hyp. And left behind an honored 
name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

Padre C. Geronimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor's service. 
Hyp. Descended from the Marquis 
Santillana ? 
From the distinguished poet ? 

Padre C. From the Marquis, 

Xot from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! some lucky 

star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! 

— once more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
Will shake his hoary head, and say, 

" Alas ! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 
Padre C. I did nut think my name 

" remembered there. 
Hjp. More than remembered ; it is 

idolized. 
Padre C. Of what professor speak 

you? 
Hyp. Timoneda. 

Padre C. I don't remember any Ti- 
moneda. 
Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose 
beetling brow 
O'erhangs the rushing current of his 

speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you for- 
gotten ? 
Padre C. Indeed, I have. 0, those 
were pleasant days, 



Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the 

like! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends ! 
1 've turned my back on what wa^ then 

before me ; 
And the bright faces of my young com- 
panions 
Are ^^'l•inkled like my own, or are nc 

more. 
Do you remember Cueva? 

Hyp. Cueva ? Cueva ? 

Padre C. Fool that I am ! He was 

before your time. 

You 're a mere boy, and I am an old 

man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my 

strength with vou. 
Padre C. Well, well. But I forget ; 
you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 

{Enter Martina.) 

Hyp. You may be proud of such a 
niece as that. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. 

{Aside.) 
He Avas a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Your servant, fair Martina, 

Mart. Sei-vant, sir 

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. 
See thou to it. 
Let us have suj^per. 

3Iart. 'T will be ready soon. 

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my 

A^al-de-Penas 

Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 

Pray you, Senor, excuse me. [Exit. 

Hyp. Hist ! ^Martina ) 

One word with you. Bless me ! what 

handsome eyes I 
To-day there have been Gypsies in the 

village. 
Is it not so ? 
Mart. There have been Gypsies here. 
Hyp. Yes, and have told your for- 
tune. 
Mart, {embarrassed). Told my for- 
tune ? 
Hyp. Yes, yes ; I know they did. 
Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, 

— they said. 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a 

clown. 
And him you should not marry. "Was it 
not? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



69 



Mart, {surprised). How know you 

that? 
Eyp. 0, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand ! And then they 

said, 
A. cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry 

you, 

And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
lie has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 
(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter 
Victorian, loith a letter. ) 
Vict. The muleteer has come. 
Hyp. So soon ? 

Vict. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door. 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the 
blood-red wine. 
Hyp. What news from Court ? 
Vict. He brought this letter only. 

{Reads. ) 

cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 

That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 

Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

Hyp. What news is this, that makes 

thy cheek turn pale. 
And thy hand tremble ? 

Vict. 0, most infamous ! 

The Count of Lara is a worthless villain ! 
HyiJ. That is no news, forsooth. 
Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul. 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding. 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, whicli has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the 

stage. 
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a 

beggar. 
She roams a wanderer over God's green 

earth. 
Housing with Gypsies ! 

Hyp. To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd 

swains 
Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's 

Diana. 
Redit et Virgo ! 

Vict. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confid- 
ing heart ! i 

1 will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I 've done her ! 

Hyp. beware ! i 

Act not that folly o'er again. ! 



Viet. Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love 

her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

{Enter the Padre Cura.) 
Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are tliese Gypsies in the neighbor- 
hood ? 
Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his 

crew. 
Vict. Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found 
again ! 
Hyp. And have they with them a pale, 
beautiful girl. 
Called Preciosa ? 

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 

He is half famished with this long day's 

journey. 

Padre 0. Then, pray you, come this 

way. The supper waits. [Exeunt. 



Scene IV. — A post-house on the road to 
Segovia, not far from the village of Gua- 
darrama. Enter Chispa, cracking a 
whip, and singing the cachucha. 

Chispa. Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let 
us have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor 
Chispa ! what a dog's life dost thou lead! 
I thought, when I left my old master 
Victonan, the student, to serve my new 
master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that 
I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman ; 
should go to bed early, and get up late. 
For when the abbot plays cards, what 
can you expect of the friars ? But, in 
running away from the thunder, I have 
run into the lightning. Here I am in 
hot chase after my master and his Gyp- 
sy girl. And a good beginning of the week 
it is, as he said who was hanged on Mon- 
day morning. 

{Enter Don Carlos.) 

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet ? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the 
hostler seems to be asleep. Ho ! Avithin 
there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! {He 
knocks at the gate with his luhip, and en- 
ter Mosquito, putting on his jacket.) 

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. 
I 'm not a musket. 

Chispa. Health and pistareens ! I 'm 



70 



THE SPANISH STUDENT 



glad to see you come on dancing, padre ! 
Pray, what 's the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; 
because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra ! Throw that 
bone to another dog. Do I look like 
your aunt ? 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estrama- 
d ira. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What 's the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that 
I am going to set up a coach, and I have 
already bought the whip. 

{Strikes him round the legs.) 

Mosq. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don G. Enough of this folly. Let 
us have horses. {Gives money to Mos- 
quito.) It is almost dark ; and we are in 
haste. But tell me, has a band of Gyp- 
sies passed this way of late ? 

Mosq. Yes ; and they are still in the 
neighborhood. 

l)on C. And w^here ? 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the 
woods near Guadarrama. \Exit. 

Bon G. Now this is lucky. We will 
visit the Gypsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil 
eye ? Have you a stag's horn with you ? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the 
night at the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of 
Hernan Daza, nine under one blanket. 

Don G. I hope we may find the Pre- 
ciosa among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Don G. No ; among the Gypsies, 
blockhead ! 

Chispa. I hope we may ; for we are 
giving ourselves trouble enough on her 
account. Don't you think so ? How- 
ever, there is no catching trout without 
wetting one's trousers. Yonder come 
the horses. [^Exeunt. 



Scene V, — The Gypsy camp in the for- 
est. Night. Gypsies working at a forge. 
Others playing cards by the firelight. 



iS {at the forge sing). 
On the top ot a raoixntain I stand, 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 



Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee ? 
how from their fury shall I flee ? 

First Gypsy {playing). Down with 
your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down 
with your John-Dorados, and let us 
make an end. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gypsy lassie here, 
And not the Gypsy man. 

First Gypsy {playing). There you are 
in your morocco ! 

Second Gypsy. One more game. The 
Alcalde's doves against the Padre Cura's 
new moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 
Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gypsy man, 
The Gypsy lassie came. 
{Enter Beltran Cruzado. ) 

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and 
Rastilleros ; leave work, leave play ; lis- 
ten to your orders for the night. {Speak- 
i7ig to tlie right. ) You will get you to 
the village, mark you, by the stone 
cross. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz, {to the left). And you, by the 
pole with the hermit's head upon it. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets 
are out, in with you, and be busy wdth 
the ten commandments, under the sly, 
and Saint Martin asleep. D'ye hear ? 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, 
if you see a goblin or a papagayo, take 
to your trampers. Vineyards and Dan- 
cing John is the word. Am 1 compre- 
hended ? 

Gypsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

{Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up tlie 
stage, and disappears among the trees 
Enter Preciosa. ) 

Free. How strangely gleams through 
the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beck 

oning shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
Rising and bending with the flickering 
flame, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



71 



Then flitting into darkness ! So within 

me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to 

each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a 

being 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is 

me ! 
How still it is about me, and how 

lonely ! 

(Bartolomb rushes in.) 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 
Prec. Bartolome ! 

Thou here ? 

Bart. Lo ! I am here. 

Prec. Whence comest thou ? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the 
wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, 

thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the 

sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Prec. touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy 

hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy 

soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone 

from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a 

price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I 've wandered long 
Among the mountains ; and for many 

days 
Have seen no human face, save the 

rough swineherd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole 

companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy 

name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me. 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from 

thee, 
ind I am here ! Betray lae, if thou wilt. 
Prec. Betray thee ? I betray thee ? 
Bart. Preciosa ! 

come for thee ! for thee I thus brave 
death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this 

realm ! 
Fly with me ! 
Prec. Speak of that no more. I 

cannot. 
I 'm thine no longer. 



Bart. 0, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played 

together. 
How we grew up together ; how we 

plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in 

childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour ha. 

come. 
I 'm hunted from the kingdom, like a 

wolf ! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Prec. 'T was my father's promise. 

Not mine. I never gave my heart t(» 

thee. 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Prec. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never 

loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my 

fault. 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst 

thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to 

live. 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another 

wife. 
Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange 

her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless pas- 
sion, 
I never sought thy love ; never did 

aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity 

thee. 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds 

of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

Bart. For thy dear sake 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me 
patience. 
Prec. Then take this farewell, and 
depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Bart. Come, come with me. 

Prec. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 
Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 
Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Prec. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, 

upon thee ! 



72 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Thou shalt not be another's. Thou 

shalt die. {Exit. 

Free. All holy angels keep me in this 

hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon 

me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect 

me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto 

me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is 

it to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and 

sorrow. 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and 

unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest forever ! dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt 

cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and com- 
plain ! 

{Enter Victorian and Hypolito hehind. ) 

Vict. 'T is she ! Behold, how beauti- 
ful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

H]jp. A woodland nymph ! 

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave 
me. 

HyiJ. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

Vict, {disguising Ms voice). Hist ! 
Gypsy ! 

Prec. {aside, ivith emotion). That 
voice ! that voice from heaven ! 

speak again ! 
Who is it calls ? 

Vict. A friend. 

Prec. {aside). 'T is he ! 'T is he ! 
\ thank thee. Heaven, that thou hast 

heard my prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be 

strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissem- 
ble here. 
Palse friend or true ? 

Vict. A true friend to the true ; 

Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you 

tell fortunes ? 

Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer 

to the fire. 

Give me your hand. It is not crossed, 

1 see. 

Vi-ct. {putting a piece of gold into her 

lumd). There is the cross. 
Prec. Is 't silver ? 



Vict. No, 't is gold. 

Prec. There 's a fair lady at the Court, 
who loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 

Prec. You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in your 

blood 
Has marred your fortune. Y^'es ; I see 

it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many 

marks. 
Shame ! shame ! you have wronged 

the maid who loved you ! 
How could you do it ? 

Vict. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no 
more. 
Prec. How know you that ? 
Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your gold ! 
Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's 

hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her j^ou]- wife, for you have been 

abused ; 
And you shall mend jowv fortunes, 
mending hers. 
Vict, (aside). How like an angel's 
speaks the tongue of woman, 
When pleading in another's cause her 

own ! 
That is a pretty ring upon your finger- 
Pray give it me. { Tries to take the ring. ) 
Prec. No ; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring. 

I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 

Will give you gold to buy you twenty 

such. 

Prec. Why would you have this ring ? 

Viet. A traveller's fancy, 

A whim, and nothing more. 1 would 

fain keep it 
As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed 

maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

Prec. No, never ! never \ 

I will not part with it, even when I 

die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers 
thus. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



73 



That it may not fall from them. 'T is a 

token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 
Vict. How ? dead ? 

Prec. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse 
than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this 

ring. 
3 will rise with it from my grave here- 
after, 
To prove to him that I was never false. 
Vict, {aside). Be still, my swelling 
heart ! one moment, still ! 
Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is 

mine, 
And that you stole it. 

Prec. 0, you will not dare 

To utter such a falsehood ! 

Vict. I not dare ? 

Look in my face, and say if there is 

aughl 
I have not dared, I would not dare for 
thee ! 

{She rushes into his arms.) 

Prec. 'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; 
yes ; my heart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's 

heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why 
didst thou leave me ? 
Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest 
Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 
Prec. Hadst thou not come — 
Vict. I pray thee, do not chide 

me ! 
Prec. I should have perished here 

among these Gypsies. 
Vict. Forgive me, sweet ! for what I 
made thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a 

moment's joy. 
Thou being absent ? 0, believe it 

not! 
indeed, since that sad hour I have not 

slept. 
For thinking of the wrong I did to 

thee ! 
Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou 
forgive me ? 
Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those 
words of auger 
A^ere in the book of Heaven writ down 

against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 



Vict. I 'm the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed 
thee false. 

It was the Count of Lara — 

Prec. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast 
thou not heard — 
Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak 
on, speak on ! 

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am 
happy ; 

For every tone, like some sweet incanta- 
tion, 

Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 

Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 

Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 
{They loalk aside.) 
Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pas- 
toral poets. 

All passionate love scenes in the best 
romances. 

All chaste embraces on the public stage. 

All soft adventures, which the liberal 
stars 

Have winked at, as the natural course 
of things, 

Have been surpassed here by my friend, 
the student. 

And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preci- 
osa ! 
Prec. Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your 
hand. 

Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 
Hyp. Not to-night ; 

For, should you treat me as you did 
Victorian, 

And send me back to marry maids for- 
lorn, 

My wedding day would last from now 
till Christmas. 
Chispa {within). What ho ! the Gyp- 
sies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 

Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

{Enters hooted, loith a whip and lantern.) 
Vict. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou 
been robbed ? 
Chispa . Ay, robbed and murdered ; 
and good evening to you. 
My worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak ; what brings thee here i 
Chispa {to Preciosa). Good news from 
Court ; good news ! Beltran Cru- 
zado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your fa- 
ther, 



74 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



But your true father has returned to 

Spain 
Laden with wealth. You ai"e no more a 
Gypsy. 
Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 
Chispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your 

health, 
As wells drink in November, when it 
rains. 
Vict. Where is the gentleman ? 
Chispa. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Free. Is this a dream ? 0, if it be a 

dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me 

yet! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I 'm not de- 
ceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victo- 
rian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! 

speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a 

dream ! 
Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! a 

waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even on 

earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now 

art thou rich, 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Prec. {giving him her hand). I have 

still 
A hand to give. 

Chispa (aside). And I have two to 

take. 
I Ve heard my grandmother say, that 

Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's 

nuts to crack. 
I 've teeth to spare, but Avhere shall I 

find almonds ? 
Vict. AVhat more of this strange 

story ? 
Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the 

village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old 

hag. 
Who stole you in your childhood, has 

confessed : 



And probably they '11 hang her for the 

crime. 
To make the celebration more complete. 
Vict. No ; let it be a day of generai 

joy; 

Fortune comes well to all, that oomes 

not late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Ifyp. So farewell, 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet 

serenades. 
Sung under ladies' windows in the 

night, 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 
To you, ye radiant visions of romance, 
Written in books, but here surpassed by 

truth. 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns. 
And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish 

Student. 



Scene VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama 
mountains. Early morning. A vmle- 
teer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on 
his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with 
flint and steel. 



If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 
But come with thy naked feet ; 

We shall have to pass through the dewy 
grass, 
And waters wide and fleet. 

{Disappears down the pass. Enter a 
Monk. A shepherd appears on the 
rocks above. ) 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! 
good man ! 

Shep. Ola! 

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? 

Shcp. It is, your reverence. 

Monk. How far is it ? 

Sliep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in the 
valley ? 

Shep. San Ildefonso. 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Sliep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in thes^ 
mountains ? 

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



75 



Monk. What? 

Shep. Wolves. 

Monlc. Santa Maria ! Come with me 
to San lldefonso, and thou shalt be well 
rewarded. 

Shc2J. What wilt thou give me ? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my bene- 
diction. 

( Tliey disappear. A mounted Contraban- 
dista passes, wrapped in his cloak, o.nd 
a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down 
the pass singing. ) 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, caballito niio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

{Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on 
horseback, attended by Victorian, Hy- 
POLiTO, Don C\rlos, and Chispa, on 
foot, and armed. ) 

Vict. This is the highest point. Here 
let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty 

mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
glorious sight ! 
Prec. Most beautiful indeed ! 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 
Vict. And in the vale below. 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted 

halberds, 
San lldefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutationto the morn. 
As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Prec. And which way lies 

Segovia ? 

Vict. At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it ? 
Prec. ISTo. I do not see it. 

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the 
horizon's edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town. 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the ]\Ioors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil 

Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Rey. 0, many a 
time 



Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the 

Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley 

creeping. 
Glides at its foot. 

Prec. yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine 

eyes, 
So faint it is. And all my thoughts 

sail thither. 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and 

forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and 

tide 
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic 

Mountains, 
And there Avere wrecked, and perished 

in the sea ! {She weeps.) 
Vict. gentle spirit ! Thou didst 

bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on 

thee 
Melts thee to tears ! 0, let thy weary 

hdart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no 

more. 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be com- 
forted 
And filled with my aff"ection. 

Prec. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him 

there, 
Now looking from the window, and now 

watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the 

street, 
And saying, " Hark ! she comes!" 

father ! father ! 
( They descend the ^jass. Chispa reviaim 
behind. ) 
Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is 
a dead one. Alas and alack -a-day 
Poor was I born, and poor do 1 remain. 
I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag 
through the world, half the time on 
foot, and the other half walking ; and 
ahvays as merry as a thunder-storm in 
the night. And so we plough along, as 
the fly said to the ox. Who knows what 
may happen ? Patience, and shuffle the 
cards ! I am not yet so bald that you 
can see my brains ; and perhaps, after all, 
I shall some day go to Rome, and come 
ba^'k Saint Peter. Benedicite ! [Exit. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 

{Fires down the pass.) 



( A pause. Thc;i enter Bartolome vnldly, 
as if in pursuit, vnth a carbine in his 
hand.) 

Bart. They passed this way ! I hear 
their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder 1 see them ! Come, sweet cara- 

millo, 
This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! 



Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet cara- 

millo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ' — 

my God ! 

{The shot is returned. Bartolome 
falls). 



THE BELFRY OP BRUGES 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemisli city, 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision. 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Whicli amid tlie waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 



And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes. 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain. 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear. 
And by day men go their ways. 
Hearing the music as they pass. 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life. 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of da5dight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies. 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ring. 

And wakes, and iinds his slumberous 

eyes 
Wet with most delicious tears. 



Thus dreamed I, as b)'' night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaiuu old Flemish city. 



I 
J 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 



77 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands 
the belfry old and brown ; | 

Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, 
still it watches o'er the town. 

I As the summer morn was breaking, on 
that lofty tower I stood, 

And the world threw off' the darkness, 
like the weeds of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, 
and with streams and vapors gray, 

Like a shield embossed with silver, 
round and vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From 
its chimneys, here and there. 

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascend- 
ing, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that 

early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in 

the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang 
the swallows wild and high ; 

And the world, beneath me sleeping, 
seemed more distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing 

back the olden times. 
With their strange, unearthly changes 

rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, 
when the nuns sing in the choir ; 

And the great bell tolled among them, 
like the chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy 
phantoms filled my brain ; 

They who live in history only seemed to 
walk the earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty 

Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, 

Guy de Dampierre. 



1 beheld the pageants splendid that 
adorned those days of old ; 

Stately dames, like queens attended, 
knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with 

deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more 

than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling 
humbly on the gi-ound ; 

I beheld the gentle JMary, hunting with 
her hawk and hound ; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where 
a duke slept with the queen, 

And the armed guard around them, and 
the sword unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Na- 

mur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody 

battle of the Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the 
White Hoods moving west, 

Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the 
Golden Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all 
tlie land with terror smote ; 

And again the wild alarum soimdedfrom 
the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er la- 
goon and dike of sand, 

" I am Kolaiid ! 1 am Roland ! there is 
victory in the laud ! " 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. 

The awakened city's roar 
Chased th ; pliantoms 1 had summoned 

back into their graves ouce more 

Hours had pnssed away like minutes; 

and, before I was a^v^re, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed 

the sun-illumined square. 



78 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 
Beneath Time's flovving tide. 

Like footprints hidden by a brook. 
But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which 1 walked to church with 
thee, 

gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 
And thy heart as pure as they : 

One of God's holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet, 

The clover-blossoms in the grass 
Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam. 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind. 

Sweet-scented with the hay. 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering 
leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon. 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 



Long was the prayer he uttered, 
Yet it seemed not so to me ; 

For in my heart I prayed with him, 
And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my 
heart, 

Like pine-trees dark and high, ' 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceil- 
ing, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished 
arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 
Startles the villages with strange 
alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild 
and dreary. 
When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful sympho- 



I hear even now the infinite fierce cho- 

rus. 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone 

before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 
Through Cinibric forest roars the 
Norseman's song. 



« 



NUREMBERG. 



79 



And loud, amid the universal clamor, 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his pal- 
ace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dread- 
ful diu, 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of ser- 
pent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning 
village ; 
The shout that every prayer for mercy 
drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pil- 
lage; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered 
towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing 
blade ; 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, man, with such discordant 
noises, 
With such accursed instruments as 
these. 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kind- 
ly voices. 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power, that fills the world 
with terror. 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on 
camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from 
error. 
There were no need of arsenals or 
forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
horred ! 
And every nation, that should lift 
again 
Its hand against a brother, on its fore- 
head 
Would wear forevermore the curse of 
Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long 
generations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and 
then cease ; 



And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vi- 
brations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ 
say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen 
portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes 
the skies ! 
But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across 

broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, 

Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint 
old town of art and song, 

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like 
the rooks that round them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the 
emperors, rough and bold. 

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time- 
defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boast- 
ed, in their uncouth rhyme. 

That their great imperial city stretched 
its hand through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound 
with many an iron band. 

Stands the mighty linden planted by 
Queen Cunigunde's hand; 

On the square the oriel window, where 

in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser 

Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the 
wondrous world of Art : 

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture 
standing in the common mart ; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and 
bishops carved in stone, 

By a former age commissioned as apostles 
to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps 
enshrined his holy dust, 

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard 
from age to age their trust ; 



80 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



In the church of sainted Lawrence stands 

a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising 

through the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a 

simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the 

Evangelist of Art ; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling 

still with busy hand. 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking 

for the Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb- 
stone where he lies ; 

Dead he is not, but departed, — for the 
artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the 
sunshine seems more fair, 

That he once has trod its pavement, that 
he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, 
these obscure and dismal lanes, 

Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chant- 
ing rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came 
they to the friendly guild, 

Building nests in Fame's great temple, 
as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he 
too the mystic rhyme. 

And the smith his iron measures ham- 
mered to the anvil's chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom 
makes the flowers of poesy bloom 

In the forge's dust and cinders, in the 
tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, lau- 
reate of the gentle craft, 

"Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in 
huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with 

a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his 

face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in 
Adam Puschman's song. 

As the old man gray and dove-like, with 
his great beard white and long. 



And at night the swart mechanic comes 
to drown his cark and care. 

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in 
the master's antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and 

before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, 

like a faded tapestry. 

Kot thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win 
for thee the world's regard ; 

But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and 
Hans Sachs thy cobbler- bard. 

Thus, Nuremberg, a wanderer from a 

region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, 

sang in thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, 

as a floweret of the soil. 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree 

of toil. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la -vie ou la reflexion de- 
vient pluscalme et plus profonde, ou l'int6ret et 
I'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans 
les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, 
et de p6ril de mort, les nobles se repentircnt de 
poss^der des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agr6' 
able k Dieu, qui avait cr^6 tous les hommes k sou 
image. 

Thierry, ConquHe de VAngleterre. 

In his chamber, weak and dying. 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered. 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death th' gainer. 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written- in the Doomsday Book 

By his bed a monk was seated. 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 

From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing. 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing. 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativit3\ 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas was- 
sail ; 



I 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 



81 



Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dpng baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Bom and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
"Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor. 
All those wronged and wretched crea- 
tures. 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features. 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Smce in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 

Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 
Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
How it gushes and struggles out 
From the throat of the overflowing 
spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide. 

With a muddy tide. 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again. 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Ingulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where fa^ and wide. 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide> 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well- watered and smoking soil, 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 



82 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Seem to thank the Lord, 
More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his iiehls of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these. 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain. 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 
Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 
Have not been wdiolly sung nor said. 
For his thought, that never stops. 
Follows the water-drops 
Down to the gi-aves of the dead, 
Down through chasms and gulfs pro- 
found, 
To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers underground ; 
And sees them, when the rain is done, 
On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven. 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to 

earth ; 
Till glimpses more sublime 
Of things, unseen before, 
Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
Turning forevermorc 
In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy moth- 
er's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund 
smiles. 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace. 

With many a grotesque form and face. 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw. 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the impeiial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With W'hat a look of proud command 

Thou shakest in thy little hand 

The coral rattle with its silver bells. 

Making a merry tune ' 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 

That coral grew, by slow degrees, 

Until some deadly and wild monsoon 

Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 

Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore. 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines. 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 

Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, little child, 

Through many a danger and escape. 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote. 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild 

goat, 
Himself as swift and wild. 
In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 
The fibres of whose shallow root, 
LTplifted from the soil, beti-ayed 
The silver veins beneath it laid. 
The buried treasures of the miser, Tin e,. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound. 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes. 

Like one, who, in a foreign land. 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and sui-prise ! 

And, restlessl}', impatiently, 

Thou strivest, struggles!, to be free. 




' From under the sheltering trees, 
The farmer sees 
His pastures." Page 82. 



TO A CHILD. 



83 



The four walls of thy nursery- 
Are now like prison walls to thee. 
Ko more thy mother's smiles, 
No more the painted tiles, 
Delight thee, nor the playthings on the 

floor, 
That won thy little, beating heart before ; 
Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 
The sound of thy merry voice 
flakes the old walls 
Jubilant, and they rejoice 
With the joy of thy young heart. 
O'er the light of whose gladness 
No shadows of sadness 
From the sombre background of memory 
start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls. 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom. 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to 

thee? 
Out, out ! into the open air ! 
Thy only dream is liberty, 
Thou carest little how or where. 
I see thee eager at thy play. 
Now shouting to the apples on the tree. 
With cheeks as round and red as they ; 
And now among the yellow stalks, 
Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 
As restless as the bee. 
Along the garden walks. 
The tracks of thy small carriage-wlieels 

I trace ; 
And see at every turn how they ettace 
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents. 
That rise like golden domes 
Above the cavernous and secret homes 
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of 

ants. 
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 
Who, with thy dreadful reign, 
Dost persecute and overwhehn 
These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 



What ! tired already ! with those sup- 
pliant looks. 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's 

books. 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of 

dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent 

nest, 
From which the laughing birds have 

taken wing. 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 

swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river 

gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of 

sleep. 

child ! new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand. 
As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate. 

Into that darkness blank and drear. 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams. 

In caverns unexplored and dark. 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark. 

Laden with flickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams. 

Until at length they disappear. 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast tliy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light, 

And wideniug outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faiut and dim. 

And scarcely visible to us here, 



84 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Rounds and completes the perfect 

sphere ; 
A prophecy and intimation, 
A pale apd feeble adumbration, 
Of the great world of light, that lies 
Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
,With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought. 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain. 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
"Remember, in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed. 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 

On thy advancing steps await. 

Still let it ever be thy pride 

To linger by the laborer's side ; 

With words of sympathy or song 

To cheer the dreary march along 

Of the great army of the poor, 

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Without reward ; for thou slialt learn 

The wdsdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore. 

Standing beside the blacksmith's door. 

And hearing the hammers, as they smote 

The anvils with a different note. 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 

Vibrant on every iron tongue, 

The secret of the sounding wire, 

And formed the seven -chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies. 
And burns to ashes in the 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
•W IS slowly sinking out of sight. 



While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 
Greater and deeper mysteries. 
I saw, with its celestial keys. 
Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 
The Samian's great iEolian lyre, 
Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 
From earth unto the fixed stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not ojily could I see, but hear. 
Its wondrous and harmonious strings. 
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 
From Dian's circle light and near. 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard oi 

snows, 
Maje?tic, mournful, Saturn goes, 
And down the sunless realms of space 
Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side. 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 
And beautiful as some fair saint, 
Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and bars, 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 
And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 
She reached the station of Orion. 
Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 
And suddenly from his outstretched arai 
Do^^^l fell the red skin of the lion 
Into the river at his feet. 
His mighty club no longer beat 



THE BRIDGE. 



85 



The forehead of the bull ; but he 
Keeled as of yore beside the sea, 
When, blinded by CEnopion, 
He sought the blacksmith at his forge. 
And, climbing up the mountain gorge. 
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its music on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast. 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 

"Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight. 
As the clocks were striking the hour. 

And the moon rose o'er the city. 
Behind the dark church -tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the 
ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide. 
And, streaming into the moonlight. 

The seaweed floated wide. 



And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tearg. 

How often, how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, how often, 

1 had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow. 

Have crossed the bridge since then 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro. 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear. 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, chief of the mighty Omahas ; 
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the mar^ in of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left U3 only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints ? 



86 



SONGS AND SONNETS. 



How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies ! 
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, 
Claiming tlie soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash ! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple 

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, 

Or by the roar of the Punning- Water, or where the Omaha 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravhie like a brave of the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts ? 

Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 

Who, unhamied, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's 

Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 

Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak 

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race ; 

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 

Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, 

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams ! 



SONGS AND SONNETS. 



SEAWEED. 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges. 
Laden wilh seaweed from the rocks : 



From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-olf, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, tliat buries 

The Orkneyan skerries. 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 



And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness. 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted. 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 



87 



From the flashing »urf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
"Wrestle with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — ■ 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing. 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 



Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 

Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 



Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem cf thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music. 

And the cares, that infest the day. 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending; 
The marsh is frozen. 
The river dead. 



Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

AVhile through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell : 



Shadows are trailing. 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



88 



SONGS AND SONNETS. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 

"Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside. 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 



There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the alehouse. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As the leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten. 
When in draamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards, 
Who, in solitary chambers, 
And with hearts by passion wasted, 
Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friend- 
ship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 



Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracksi ; — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field. 
Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics. 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless .' 
Yet at leaot by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these Avide, old-fashioned chimneys. 
So thy twittering songs shail nestle 
In my bosom, — 

Quiet, close, and warm. 
Sheltered from all molestation. 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 

VoGELWEiD the Minnesinger, 
AVhen he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister, 

Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, ** From these wandering min- 
strels 

I have learned the art of song ; 
Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire, 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 

In foul weather and in fair, 
Day by day, in vaster numbers. 

Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone. 
On the poet's sculptured face, 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



89 



On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 
They renewed the War of Wartburg, 

Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, '* Why this waste of food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests. 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 
Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral, 

By sweet echoes multiplied, 
Still the birds repeat the legend. 

And the name of Vogelweid. 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us. 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken, 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 



Wild from Naxian gi'oves, or Zante's 
Vineyaids, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations. 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, 
Much this mystic throng expresses 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels. 
Of. a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithjTambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 
Wreathed about Avith classic fables 5 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us. 
How its Avavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



THE OLD CLOCK ON 
STAIRS. 



THE 



L'eternit^ est une pendule, dont le balancier 
dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement 
silence des tombeaux : " Toujours ! 
Jamais ! toujours ! " 

Jacques Bridaine, 



dans le 
jamais 1 



Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 



90 



SONGS AND SONNETS. 



And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 

From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, Avho, under his cloak. 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas .' 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

* ' Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; . 
But in the silent dead of night. 
Distinct; as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall. 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber- 
door, — 

' ' Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Thi-ough days of death and days of 

birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has 

stood. 
And a if, like God, it all things 

.:aw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played. 
There youths and maidens dreaming 

strayed ; 
precious hours ! golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a aiiser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding 
night; 



There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, Avith throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there. 
Where all parting, pain, and care. 
And death, and time shall disappear, — - 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

' ' Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I SHOT an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



SONNETS. 

THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 
Whose panes the sunken sun incarna- 
dines. 
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 
The evening star, the star of love and 
rest ! 
And then anon she doth herself divest 
Of all her radiant garments, and re- 
clines 
Behind the sombre screen of yonder 
pines, 



THE CROSS OF SNOW. 



91 



With slumber and soft dreams of love 
oppressed. 
i»y beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 
»My morning and my evening star of 

love ! 
,My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 
As that fair planet in the sky above, 
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, 
And from thy darkened window fades 
the light. 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the 

rain. 
With banners, by great gales incessant 

fanned. 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samar- 

cand. 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy 

wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charle- 
magne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal 

hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er 

the land. 
Blessing the farms through all thy 

vast domain ! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, sus- 
pended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'er- 

hanging eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers 

attended ; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the 

sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation 

splendid. 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the 

golden leaves ! 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the 
realms of gloom, 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, ma- 
jestic eyes, 



Stern thoughts and awful from thy 
soul arise. 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
Thy sacred song is like the trump of 
doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympa- 
thies. 

What soft compassion glows, as in 
the skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps 
relume ! 
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid 
cheeks, 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese. 

As up the convent-walls, in golden 
streaks, 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's 
decrease ; 

And, as he asks what there the stran- 
ger seeks. 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 
" Peace ! " 



THE CROSS OF SNOW. 



sleepless watches of the 
the face of one long 



In the loug 
night, 
A gentle face 

dead — 
Looks at me from the wall, where 

round its head 
The uijjht-lamp casts a halo of pale 
light. 
Here in this room she died; and soul 
more white 
Never through martyrdom of fire was 

led 
To its repose ; nor can in books be 

read 
The legend of a life more benedight. 
There is a mountain in the distant West 
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines 
Displays a cross of snow upon its side. 
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast 
These eighteen years, through all the 

changing scenes 
And seasons, changeless since the day 
she died. 
July 10, 1879. 



92 



TRANSLATIONS. 






THE HEMLOCK TREE 



FROM THE GERMAN 



HEMLOCK tree ! hemlock tree ! how 

faithful are thy branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter's frost and rime ! 

kemlock tree ! hemlock tree ! how 

faithful are thy branches ! 

maiden fair ! maiden fair ! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity, 
And leave me in adversity ! 
maiden fair ! maiden fair ! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak'st for thine example ! 
So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her 
wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 
tak'st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 

is mirror of thy falsehood ! 

It flows so long as falls the rain. 

In drought its springs soon dry 

again. 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 

is mirror of thy falsehood ! 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my 
gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good. 
Thou, my soul, my flesh, and my 
blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet 

or come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however 

it blow. 



TRANSLATIONS. h 

Oppression, and sickness, and sortow, 
and pain ^ 

Shall be to our true love as links to the 
chain. 



As the palm-tree standeth so straight 

and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more 

the raius fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty 

and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, 

through manifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander 

alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 

known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where 

the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through 

armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 
The threads of our two lives are woven 
in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast 

obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gain. 

said. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand. 
Where there is not one heart, and one 
mouth, and one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, 

and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and 

wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my 
dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be 

seen ; 
I am king of the household, and tliou 

art i^s queen. 



POETIC APHORISMS. 



93 



It is this, my Annie, my heart's 

sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in 

one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we 

dwell ; 
Wliile wrangling soon changes a home 

to a hell. 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHE- 
DEAL DOOR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 

In his mantle, — wound about him. 
As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 

0, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him, a child ! 



And 



leaves and 



my songs, — green 
blossoms, — 
To the doors of heaven would bear, 
Calling even in storm and tempest. 
Round me still these birds of aii-. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS- 
BILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
AVith its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 



And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
' ' Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood .' " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE, 

The sea hath its pearls, 

The heaven hath its stars ; 
But my heart, my heart. 

My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart. 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 

My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
Are melting away with love ! 



POETIC APHORISMS. 



FROM THE 



SINNGEDICHTE OF 
VON LOGAU. 



FRIEDRICB 



SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 

MONEY. 

Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood. 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST MEDICINES. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door oil the doctor's nose". 

SIN. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin. 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 



94 



CURFEW. 



POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 

A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind 

a poor man is ; 
For the former seeth no man, and the 

latter no man sees. 

LAW OF LIFE. 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbor honestly. 
Die I, so die I. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these 
creeds and doctrines three 

Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where 
Christianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A MILLSTONE and the human heart are 

driven ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to giind, they 

must themselves be ground. 

CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and 
warmth and comfort it bespoke ; 

But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only 
bites us, like the smoke. 



ART AND TACT. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always 

are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room 

we find. 



RETRIBUTION. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, 
yet they grind exceeding small ; 

Though with patience he stands waiting, 
with exactness grinds he all. 



TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, 
kindle but a torch's fire. 

Ha ! hoAv soon they all are silent ! Thus 
Truth silences the liar. 



RHYMES. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should 

sound not well in strangers' ears. 
They have only to bethink them that it 

happens so with theirs ; 
For so long as wor<ls, like mortals, call 

a fatherland their own. 
They will be most highly valued where 

they are best and longest known. 



CURFEW. 



Solemnly, mournfully. 

Dealing its dole. 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 
Toil comes with the morning. 

And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 



No voice in the chambers. 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 

11. 

The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand tliat has written It 
Lays it away. 

Dim gi'ow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes. 

They darken and die. 



i 



Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened. 

The hearth-st(>':ie is cold. 



EVANGELINE. 95 



Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign over all. 



EVANGELINE. 

A TALE OF ACADIE. 

This is the forest primeval. The niurinuring pines and the hemlocks, 
Bearded Avith moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight. 
Stand like Druids of eld, witli voices sad and prophetic, 
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman 
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands. 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed ! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, wdien the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean, 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, 
List to the inournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 



PART THE FIRST. 
L 

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little Aallage of Grand-Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward. 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. 
West and south there Avere fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with fiames of oak and of hemlock, 



96 EVANGELINE. 

Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting 

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset 

Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys. 

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidetiS 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 

Jleverend walked, he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending. 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leave& 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses 1 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden, 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with lioly sounds the air, as the priest Avith his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal. 
Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession. 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a Avoodl)ine wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside. 



( 



EVANGELINE. 97 

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown 

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard, 

There stood the broad- wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows ; 

There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio. 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, Avith the selfsame 

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase. 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 

Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pr^ 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended. 
And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, , 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he Avhispered 
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 
But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith. 
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; 
For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. 
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 
Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything. 
Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire"'of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows. 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swdft as the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of .he sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
** Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the sunshine 



98 EVANGELINE. 

Whicli, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples • 
She, too, would bring to her liusband's house delight and abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 



II. 

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 

And tlie retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound. 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September 

"Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, 

Called by the pious Acadian jjeasants the Summer of All-Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the landscape 

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of tlie ocean 

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards. 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons. 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him ; 

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow. 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer. 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 
Then came the shepherd ])ack with his bleating flocks from the seaside. 
Where was their favorite pasture. Behiiul them followed the watch-dog. 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector, 
When from the forest at niglit, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes. 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks. 
AVhile aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson. 
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yi(dded their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard. 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; 



EVANGELINE. 99 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 
B^rngments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, liis fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated. 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. 
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, 
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar. 
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted. 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 
" WelcQme ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold^ 
"Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 
" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him. 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." 
"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he continued : — 
" Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 



100 EVANGELINE. 

Amis have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; 

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." 

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer ; — 

" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean. 

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 

Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 

Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about them, 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. 

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " 

As apart by the window she stood, wfth her hand in her lover's, 

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 



III. 

Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 

Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 

Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 

Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows 

Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 

Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. 

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion. 

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 

For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest. 

And of the goblin that came in the night to w^ater the horses. 

And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable. 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell. 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes. 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith. 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 

•'* Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village, 

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." 

Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 

" Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 

And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 

Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ?" 

" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; 

"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore * 

Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! " 

But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public, — • 

"Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 

Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 

This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it 



EVANGELINE. 101 

When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. 

" l?nce in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 

Raised aloft on a colunm, a brazen statue of Justice 

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, 

And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 

Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance. 

Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 

But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 

Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty 

Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace 

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion 

Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 

She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaff'old, 

Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 

Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 

Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 

Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance. 

And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 

Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." 

Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith 

Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language ; 

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors 

Freeze in fantastic sliapes on the window-panes in thb winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table. 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand- Pre : 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn. 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 
reaming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom. 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed. 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside. 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row 
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure. 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stono, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 



i02 EVANGELINE. 

Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 

Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 

Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 

Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press 

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, 

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart^of the maideii 

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 

Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 

Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, 

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. 

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds m the moonlight 

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass 

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps. 

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! 



IV. 

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly gleamed in tlie soft, sweet air the Basin of ^Minas, 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor 

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 

Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets. 

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 

"WTiere no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house-doors 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple peo])le, who lived like brothers together. 

All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. 

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 

.Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler 








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'#^^ 
?'^^ 



EVANGELINE. 103 

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant spund of his fiddle, 
Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkcrq^ie, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged erelong. was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, 
Waited the v^^omen. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones 
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 
" You are convened this day," he said," by his Majesty's orders. 
Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper 
Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty's pleasure ! " 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger. 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. 
Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 
Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others 
Rose, with his arms uplifted, tlie figure of Basil the blacksmith. 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, — 
"Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them allegiance! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and oui- harvests ! " 
More he fiiin would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 
Smote him upoii the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious nnen, and ascended the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful 



104 EVANGELINE. 

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 

" What is this that ye do, my children ? .what madness has seized you ? 

Forty years of my life have 1 labored among you, and taught you. 

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? 

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 

Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! 

See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 

Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' Father, forgive them ! ' 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' Father, forgive them ! ' " 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, 

While they repeated his prayer, and said, "0 Father, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated. 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending. 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy ; 
And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen. 
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience i 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 
Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, 
'* Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer 
Cam€ from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted. 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall 
T^ou4 on the witl^ered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. 



EVANGELINE. 105 

Keenly the lightning flashed : and the voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. 



V. 

Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore. 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; 
All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn. 
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 
Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices. 
Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 
*' Sacred heart of the Saviour ! inexhaustible fountain ! 
Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! " 
Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside 
Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 
Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 
ITot overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him. 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered, — 
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! " 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep . 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. 
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, 
Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumiilt and stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 



106 EVANGELINE. 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw tiieir childreD 

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 

So nnto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 

Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean 

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, 

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 

All escape cut oft' by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean. 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures ; 

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; 

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, — 

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. 

Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded, 

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered. 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish. 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father. 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man. 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion. 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 
Vainly ofl'ered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. 
^^ Bencdicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 
Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow. 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village. 
Gleamed on the .sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in tlie roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, u])lifting, 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 



EVANGELINE. 107 

These things beheld iii dismay the crowd on the sliore and on shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 
" We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre ! " 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards. 
Thinking the day ]).ad dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the si)eed of the whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 
Such was the sound tliat arose on the night, as the herds and the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were moui'nfully gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscajie. 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 
*' Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 
Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast cont*«'egation. 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 
'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean. 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor. 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 



PART THE SECOND. 
L 

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pr6, 

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 

Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast 

Strikes aslant throu.gh the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. 



108 . EVANGELINE. 

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 

From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean. 

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 

Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken. 

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 

Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 

Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered. 

Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 

Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended. 

Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 

Marked by the gi-aves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, 

Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned. 

As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by 

Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; 

As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine. 

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 

Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 

She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; 

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, 

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 

Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him. 

But it was long ago, in some far-off" place or forgotten. 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " they said ; "0 yes ! we have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; 

Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; "0 yes ! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 

Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream and wait for him longer ? 

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 

Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, Avho has loved thee 

Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses.'' 

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, " I cannot ! 

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, 

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 

Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor. 

Said, with a smile, " daughter ! thy God thus speak eth within thee ! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; 

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 

Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affection ! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven ! " 

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 



EVANGELINE. 109 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, " Despair not ! " 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 

Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, 

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if he fmd the spot where it reaches an outlet. 



n. 

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; 

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay. 

Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, 

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 

Lay in the stream, and along the wiinpling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 

They were a})proaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters. 

Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress 

Met in a dusky ar(3h, and trailing mosses in mid-air 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar- trees returning at sunset. 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water. 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them ; 

And o'er their spirits theie came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies. 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa. 



I 



110 EVANGELINE. 

So, at the lioof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 
Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. 
Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. 
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, 
Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs. 

Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, 1 

Wiiile through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert. 
Far off, — indistinct, — as of Avave or wind in the forest. 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades ; and before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 
Faint w^as the air Avith the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms. 
And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands, 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses. 
Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of AVachita willows, that grew by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered- 
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine 
Hung theii ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water. 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unliappy and restles-s, 
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 
Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, 



EVANGELINE. Ill 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of pahnettos, 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed m the willows, 

All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers, 

Angel of God was there none to awaken the shnnbering maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke^ and the maiden 

Said with a siSh to the friendly priest, " Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? _ 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ? 

Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning. 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — _ 

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without meaning. 

Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the s^urtace 

Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. 

Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward. 

On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. 

There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegi'oom, 

There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. 

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 

Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 

They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." 

With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'or the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water. 
Shook from his little throat such floods of deliriwus music, 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of i'renzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 
, As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion. 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 
And, through the amber air, alDove the crest of the woodland, _ 
Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling : — 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. 



112 EVANGELINE. 

III. 

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted. 

Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms. 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. 

Large and low was the roof ; and on slender columns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol. 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions^of rivals. 

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in shadow. 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie. 

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics. 

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that Avere grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and* breathing the vapory freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and ex]ianding 
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the lony: whire liorns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of winder ; 
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 
There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping bv turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. 
Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 
3roke the silence and said, " If you came by the Atchnfalaya, ^ 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous 1 
Over Evangeline's face at the words of' Basil a shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, 
" Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, concealiD#? her face on his shoulder. 



EVANGELINE. 113 

All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 

**Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 

Foolish Doy ! he has left nie alone with my herds and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever. 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him 

Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 

Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 

Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 

He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. 

Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning 

We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 
*' Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel ! " 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured. 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith. 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor ; 
Much they marvelled to hear liis tales of the soil and the climate. 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda. 
Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors, 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco. 
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened : — 
''Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one ! 
Here no hungry Avinter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water- 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows 
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests 



114 EVANGELINK. 

No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 

Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." 

Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 

While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table. 

So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded, 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snutf half-way to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer: — 

"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell ! " 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 

Ic was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors : 

Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were as strangers, 

Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, 

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 

But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding 

From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle. 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted. 

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 

AVhirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music. 

Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings. 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, 
Passed she along rhe path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens. 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship. 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple. 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies. 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " Gabriel ! my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers I 



EVANGELINE. 115 

"When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded 

Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 

'* Patience ! " whispered the oaks fi'om oracular caverns of darkness : 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow ! " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 
" Farewell ! " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold ; 
" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." 
" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 
Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 
Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded. 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, 
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 

IV. 

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon. 
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 
Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 
And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, 
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies. 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine. 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck ; 
Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 
Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture. 
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle. 
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders ; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers ; 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert. 
Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, 
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven. 
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 



116 EVANGELINE. 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, 
"When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and v.mished before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 
Into the little camp au Indian woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and fiiendliest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept Avhere the quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, 
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one wlio had suffered was near her, 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 
Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden. 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine. 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was Avooed by a phantom. 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to tlie maiden, 
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, 
And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark ^Mountains the moon rose. 
Lighting the little tent, and wi;h a mysterious splendor 
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror. 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 



EVANGELINE. 117 

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 

Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment 

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, " On the western slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him."' 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission, 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village. 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines. 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers. 
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching. 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hajids of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in tlie forest. 
And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. 
JThere upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity answered : — 
" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes. 
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! " 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness ; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 
" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but in autumn. 
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." 
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, 
" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afllicted." 
So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the morrow. 
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
Cays and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize that were springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above hex. 
Lifted their slender shafts, w^ ^h leaves interlacing, and forming 
Cloister^ for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-fiel^- 
Even the b]ood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover, 



118 EVANGELINE. 

" Patience ! " the priest would say ; * ' have faith, and thy prayer will be answered ! 
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet ; 
This is the compass-flower, that tlie finger of God has planted 
Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance. 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 
I Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." 

So canie the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not ; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches. 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and tlie battle-fields of the army. 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away fi'om her beauty. 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon. 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 

V. 

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty. 

And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, 

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile. 

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 

There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed. 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 

Something at least there was in the friendly streetf of the city, 

Something that spake to her heart, and made her n*. longer a stranger ; 

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 



EVANGELINE. 119 

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. 

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. 

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets. 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, 

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and tlie pathway 

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. 

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, 

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 

Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but transfigured ; 

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; 

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others. 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices. 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city. 

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as tlie watchman 7-epeated 

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was v/ell in the city. 

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market. 

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wontlrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 
Darkening the sun in their flightj with naught in their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin. 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, Avith its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor. 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles. 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial. 
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden ; 



120 EVANGELINE. 

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to che corridors, cooled by the east-wind. 

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, 

While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at "Wicaco. 

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; 

Something within her said, " At length thy trials are ended" ; 

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces. 

Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. 

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 

A.nd, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler. 

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time ; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder. 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her lingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the fonn of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever. 
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness. 
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverl)erations, 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
" Gabriel ! my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 
Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under their shadow. 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken 
Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him. 
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into darkness, 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
^^l the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. 



DEDICATION. 



121 



A.11 the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank thee ! 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard. 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them. 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mo'irnful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
"Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom ere still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
"While from its rocky caverns the deep- voiced, neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE, 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, v»^alking in the twilight 
gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it 
darkens. 
And seeing not the forms from which 
they come. 
Pauses from time to time, and turns 
and hearkens ; 

So walking here in twilight, my 
friends ! 
I hear your voices, softened by the 
distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each 
sends 
His words of friendship, comfort, and 
assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told. 
Has ever given delight or consolation. 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 



Thanks for the sympathies that ye have 
shown ! 
Thanks for each kindly word, each 
silent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most 
alone. 
Friends are around us, though no word 
be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to 
land ; 
Kind letters, that betray the heart's 
deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a 
hand, — 
One touch of fire, — and all the rest 
is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 
Our household treasures take familiar 
places. 
And are to us as if a living tongue 
Spake from the printed leaves or pic- 
tured fences ! 



122 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 
With eye of sense, your outward form 
and semblance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old, 
But live forever young in my remem- 
brance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass 

away I 

Your gentle voices will flow on forever, 

When life grows bare and tarnished with 

decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a 



Not chance of birth or place has made 
us friends. 
Being oftentimes of different tongues 
and nations. 



But the endeavor- for the selfsame ends, 
With the same hopes, and fears, and 
aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside 
walk, 
Saddened, and mostly silent, witli 
emotion ; 
Not interrupting with intrusive talk 
The grand, majestic symphonies of 
ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 
At your warm fireside, when the lamps 
are lighted, 
To have my place reserved among the 
rest. 
Nor stand as one unsought and unin- 
vited ! 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

"Build me straight, worthy Master.' 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wres- 
tle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the 

heart 
Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips. 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee. 

He answered, " Erelong we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and 

stanch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 
And first with nicest skill and art, 
Perfect and finished in every part, 
A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the Jarger plan 
What the child is to the man. 
Its counterpart in miniature ; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 



To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of all 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and 

tall. 
Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there. 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat. 
And eight round towers, like those that 

frown 
From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
And he said with a smile, " Our ship, 1 

wis. 
Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed ; 
Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
A beautiful and gallant craft ; 
Broad in the beam, that the stress of the 

blast. 
Pressing down upon sail and mast. 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm. 
And that the currents of parted seas. 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 



thp: building of the ship. 



123 



In the ship-yard stood the Master, 
With the model of the vessel, 

That should laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle 

Covering many a rood of ground. 
Lay the timber piled around ; 
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. 
And scattered here and there, with these. 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 
Hrought from regions far away. 
From Pascagoula's sunny bay. 
And the banks of the roaring Eoanoke ! 
Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 
To note how many wheels of toil 
One thought, one word, can set in mo- 
tion ! 
There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil. 
Must bring its tribute, great or small. 
And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one. 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest mean- 
ing. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth. 
The old man and the fiery youth ! 
The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
The heir of his dexterity. 
The heir of his house, and his daughter's 

hand. 
When he had built and launched from 

land 
What the elder head had planned. 

"Thus," said he, "will we build this 

ship ! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 
Of all that is unsound beware ; 



For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
And the Union be her name ! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee ! " 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside. 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride. 

Standing before 

Her father's door. 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and 

fair, 
With the breath of morn and the soft 

sea air. 
Like a beauteous barge was she. 
Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
Just beyond the billow's reach ; 
But he 
Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain. 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far excelleth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun. 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's 

bounds 
Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Of axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side ; 
Plied so deftly and so well. 
That, ere the shadows of evening fell. 
The keel of oak for a noble ship, 
Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong* 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun. 
And not per])lexed and multiplied, 
By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 



124 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
And ships tliat never came back again, 
The chance and change of a sailor's life, 
Want and plenty, rest and strife. 
His roving fancy, like the wind, 
That nothing can stay and nothing can 

bind. 
And the magic charm of foreign lands. 
With shadows of palms, and shining 

sands, 
Where the tumbling surf, 
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her 

breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea. 
With all its terror and mystery. 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a 

gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile 

illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark. 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest. 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and 
true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship roee up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the 
side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied. 

Till after many a week, at length. 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sviblime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, up- 
wreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed. 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the 
sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers. 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men -' — 



" Build me straight, worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle I * 

With oaken brace and copper band, 
Lay the rudder on the sand. 
That, like a thought, should have con- 
trol 
Over the movement of the whole ; 
And near it the anchor, whose giaut 

hand 
Would reach down and grapple witli the 

land, 
And immovable and fast 
Hold the great ship against the bellow. 

ing blast ! 
And at the bows an image stood. 
By a cunning ai-tist carved in wood. 
With robes of white, that far behind 
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
It was not shaped in a classic mould, 
Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 
Or Naiad rising from the water. 
But modelled from the Master's daugh- 
ter ! 
On many a dreary and misty night, 
'T will be seen by the rays of the signal 

light. 
Speeding along through the rain and the- 

dark. 
Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
The pilot of some phantom bark, 
Guiding the vessel, in its flight. 
By a path none other knows aright ! 
Behold, at last. 
Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place ; 
Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine^ 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers. 

Panting beneath the goad. 

Dragged down the weary, winding road' 

Those captive kings so straight and talU 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 

To feel the stress and che strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



125 



Would remind them forevermore 
Of their native forests they should not 
see again. 

A.nd everywhere 
The slender, graceful spars 
Poise aloft in the air, 
And at the mast-head. 
White, blue, and red, 
A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 
Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless. 
In foreign harbors shall behold 
That flag unrolled, 
'T will be as a friendly hand 
Stretched out from his native land. 
Filling his heart with memories sweet 
and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched. 

And o'er the bay. 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 
Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
Paces restless to and fro. 
Up and down the sands of gold. 
His beating heart is not at rest ; 
And far and wide. 
With ceaseless flow, 
His beard of snow 

Heaves withjflie heaving of his breast. 
He waits impatient for his bride. 
There she stands;-. 
With her foot tipon the sands. 
Decked with flags and streamers gay. 
In honor of her marriage day. 
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blend- 
ing, 
Round her like a veil descending. 
Ready to be 
The bride of the gray old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 
The service read. 



The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son. 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak. 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold. 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer. 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs. 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible force. 

The will from its moorings and its 

course. 
Therefore he spake, and thus said 

he: — 
' ' Like unto ships far off" at sea. 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around. 
Floats and swings the horizon's bound. 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to turn and sink. 
As if we could slide from its oute; 

brink. 
Ah ! it is not the sea, 
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves. 
But ourselves 
That rock and rise 
With endless and uneasy motion, 
Now touching the very skies, 
Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level and ever true 
To the toil and the task we have to do, 
We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining 

beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we 

hear. 
Will be those of joy and not of fear ! " 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word. 



126 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 



Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to 

feel 
The thrill of life along her keel. 
And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
With one exulting, joyous bound. 
She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud. 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
* ' Take her, bridegroom, old and gray, 
Ta.ke her to thy protecting arms. 
With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
Sail forth into the sea, ship ! 
Through wind and wave, light on- 

Avard steer ! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! 
Sail on, Union, strong and great ! 
Humanitj'^ Avith all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy ftite ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
WhatWorkmenwrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 



Our heaits, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our 

tears. 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



CHRYSAOR. 

Just above yon sandy bar. 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer. 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor, rising out of the sea. 

Showed thus glorious and thus emu- 
lous. 

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion 
brightly; _ 

Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, 1 gaze on nightly ! 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends. 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long. 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
Where the sand as silver shines. 

With a soft, monotonous cadence. 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand, 

Sav.- a fair and stately galley, 
Stf^ering onward to the land ; — 



SIR' HUMPHREY GILBERT. 



127 



How he heard the ancient helmsman 
Chant a song so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 

Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

** Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 

"Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman 
answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon. 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy. 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light. 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window. 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night- wind, bleak and wild, 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child ? 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night- wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the mother. 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east-wind was his breath, 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glisten in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide. 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And nevermore, on sea or shore. 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book Avas in his hand ; 

" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 
He said, ' ' by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound. 
Out of the sea, mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds ; 

Every mast, as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 
At midnight black and cold ! 

As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark. 
They drift in close embrace. 

With mist and rain, o'er the open main 
Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, forever southward, 
They drift through dark and day ; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all awaj. 



128 BY THE SEASIDE. 

THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles 
away, 
The Lighthouse lifts its massive ma- 
sonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by 
day. 

Even at this distance I can see the 
tides. 
Upheaving, break unheard along its 
base, 
A speechless wratli, that rises and sub- 
sides 
In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how 
bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twi- 
light air. 
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its 
light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in 
the glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting 
cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's 
verge, 
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 
Holding its lantern o'er the restless 
surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it 
stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous 
wave. 
Wading far out among the rocks and 
sands. 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and 
return. 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy 
swells, 
A.nd ever joyful, as they see it burn, 
They wave their silent welcomes and 
farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and 
their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze. 
And eager faces, as the light unveils. 
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
they gaze. 



The mariner remembers when a 
child. 
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and 
sink ; 
And when, returning from adventures 
wild. 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, through all the silent 
night 
Burns on forevermore that quenchless 
flame. 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
The Tccks and sea-sand with the kiss 
of peace ; 
It sees the wild winds lift it in their 
grasp. 
And hold it up, and shake it like a 
fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the 
storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the 
rain, 
And steadily against its solid form 
Press the great shoulders of the liur- 
ricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the 
din 
Of wings and winds and solitary 
cries, 
Blinded and maddened by the light 
within. 
Dashes himself against the glare, and 
dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the 
rock. 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of 
Jove, 
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the 
shock. 
But hails the mariner with words of 
love. 

"Sail on ! " it says, "sail on, ye stately 
ships ! 
And with your floating bridge the 
ocean span •, 
Be mine to guard this light from all 
eclipse. 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto 
man ! " 



RESIGNATION. 



129 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVBBEUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

(jave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent 
town, 
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort. 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night. 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and 
said. 
Of what had been, and might have been. 
And who was changed, and who was 
dead ; 

^.nd all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate 
ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 



And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but 
mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips. 
As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 
The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and 
failed. 

We thought of wn-ecks upon the main. 
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 

And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach. 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames. 
All mingled vaguely in our speech . 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain. 

The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
That send no answers back again. 

flames that glowed ! hearts that 
yearned ! 
They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned. 
The thoughts that burned and glowed 
within. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and 
tended. 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dy- 
ing, 
And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children 
crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 



Let us be patient ! These severe afilic 
tions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 



130 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
tion, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
tection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and se- 
clusion, 
By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's 
pollution, 
She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursu- 
ing. 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep un- 
broken 
The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken. 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold 
her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair -maiden, in her Father's man- 
sion. 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
sion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise. 
Time is with materials filled ; 
Our to-days and yesterdays 
! Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, tjecause no man sees. 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well. 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN Al^ 
HOUR-GLASS. 

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot 
clime 
Of Arab deserts brought. 
Within this glass becomes the spy of 
Time, 
The minister of Thought. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



131 



How many weary centuries has it been 
About those deserts blown ! 

How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 
How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
Trampled and passed it o'er, 

When into Egypt from the patriarch's 
sight 
His favorite son they boi-e, 

perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and 
bare. 

Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 

Scattered it as they sped ; 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress. 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and 
faith 

Hlumed the wilderness ; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 
Pacing the Dead Sea beach. 

And singing slow their old Armenian 
psalms 
In half- articulate speech ; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confldent of Fate, 
And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have 



Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last. 
It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrov,' walls ex- 
pand ; 
Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting 
sand. 
Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast. 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting sun. 
Across the boundless plain, 

The column and its broader shadow 
run. 
Till thought pursues in vain. 



The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run 1 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall. 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair. 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air. 
And distant sounds seem near , 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night. 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms 1 cannot see. 

0, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and 
wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night. 
With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



132 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade, 
-And on the gravelled pathway 
x^he light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more, 

They walked not under the lindens, 
They played not in the hall ; 

^ut shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

ind the boy that walked beside me. 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



KING WITLAFS DRINKING- 
HORN. 

WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels. 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

r?iey might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 
In their beards the red wine glistened 

Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 



They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees. 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomseus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 



And the Yule-log cracked in the chim* 
ney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 



Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowl, 

In which, like a pearl dissolving. 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, * ' Fill high the goblet \ 

We must drink to one Saint more ! " 



GASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baffled, weary, and disheartened. 
Still he mused, and dreamed of fama 

'T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought 

Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, master ! 
From the burning brand of oak 



TEGN^R'S DRAPA. 



133 



Shape the thought that stirs within 
thee ! " 
And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing 
wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lietli nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village. 

Without haste and without heed. 

In the golden prime of morning. 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and 
sheaves. 

And, like living coals, the apples 
Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'T was the daily call to labor. 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 
In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 

Not the less he breathed the odors 
That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common. 
By the school- boys he was found ; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier. 
Ringing loud his brazen bell. 

Wandered down the street proclaiming 
There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people, 
Rich and poor, and young and old. 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 
Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 

But it brought no food nor shelter. 
Brought no straw nor stall, for him, 



Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked he through the wooden bars, 

Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape. 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 
Sounded from its dark abode. 

And, from out a neighboring farm-yard 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
Breaking from his iron chain. 

And unfolding far his pinions. 
To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found, upon the greensward 
Where his struggling hoofs had trod. 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round, 

Strengthening all who drink its waters, 
While it soothes them with its sound. 



TEGNER'S DRAPA. 

I HEARD a voice, that cried, 
''Balder the Beautiful 
Is dead, is dead ! " 
And through the misty air 
Passed like the mournful cry 
Of sunward sailing cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice forever cried, 

' ' Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And died away 

Through the dreary night, 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun. 
Fairest of all the Gods .' 
Light from his forehead beamed. 



134 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



Runes were upon his tongue, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe, 
The sacred mistletoe ! 

Hoeder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence. 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe. 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness. 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger. 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the mistj'^ sea. 

Till like the sun it seemed. 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 

So perish the old Gods ! 

But out of the sea of Time 

Eises a new land of song, 

Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows gi-een 

Walk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race. 

Feed upon morning dew. 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer. 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
ISTo more, Avith threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 
ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only. 
Not the deeds of blood ! 



SONNET. 

kemble's keadings 
shakespeare. 



FROM 



PRECIOUS evenings ! all too SAnftly 
sped ! 
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest 



And giving tongues unto the silent 
dead ! 
How our hearts glowed and trembled as 
she read. 
Interpreting by tones the wondrous 



Of the great poet who foreruns the 

ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be said ! 
happy Eeader ! having I'or thy text 
The magic book, whose Sibylline 

leaves have caught 
The rarest essence of all human 

thought ! 
happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now 

rejoice 
To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



THE SINGERS. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth. 
That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 
Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 
Through groves he wandered, and by 

streams. 
Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing in the maiket-place. 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last. 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast. 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 



THE BLIND GIEL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



135 



But the great Master said, " I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

*' These are the three great chords of 

might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three. 
But the most perfect harmony." 



SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay. 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves. 

As garments by the soul laid by, 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy tree. 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



HYMN 

FOR MY brother's ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young'man said; "Yet 
one thing more ; 

If thou wouldst perfect be. 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 

And come and follow me ! " 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? " 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

holy trust ! endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast. 

And thus to journey on ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



from the GASCON OF JASMIN. 



Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright ; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, Reader, for the deed the will. 



I. 



At the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the al- 
mond tree 
In the plain below were growing 

white. 
This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's 
Eve: 

"The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending. 
Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye. 

Each one with her attendant swain. 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same 

strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the sky. 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has 

sent 
For their delight and our encourage- 
ment. 
Together blending, 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hillside steep, 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 



136 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
With merry sallies 
Singing their chant : 

**The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay, 

So fair a biide shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of 
gloom. 
The sun of March was shining brightly, 
And to the air the freshening wind gave 
lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges 

blossom, 
A. rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies. 
That touch with tenderness the trem- 
bling bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Cai'essing, 
With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance. 
They retreat and advance, 
Trying whose laugh shall be loud- 
est and merriest ; 
While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and 
cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be ! " 

And all pursue with eager haste, 
And all attain what they pursue. 
And touch her pretty apron freshand new, 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that 

among 
These youthful maidens fresh and 

fair. 
So joyous, with such laughing air. 



Baptiste stands sighing, with silent 

tongue ? 
And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 
no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
Wbxit, lovers ! they give not a single 

caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
These are grand people, one would 
say. 
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him 
oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill. 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still. 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago. 
That Margaret, the young and ten- 
der. 
Was the village pride and splendor, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But alas ! the summer's blight, 
The dread disease that none can stay. 
The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was 

changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love 

estranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 
Returned but three short days ago. 
The golden chain they round him 

throw. 
He is enticed, and onward led 
To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
"Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And I y 
a fountain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
She promises ope a village swain, 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILL^. 



137 



Another a happy wedding-day, 
And the bride a lovely boy straight- 
way. 
iUl comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 
Wears a countenance severe, 
/\.nd from beneath her eyebrows tliin and 
white 
Her two eyes flash like cannons 

bright 
Aimed at the bridegroom in waist- 
coat blue, 
Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 
Changing color, as well he might. 
When the beldame wrinkled and 

gray 
Takes the young bride by the hand, 
And, with the tip of her reedy wand 
Making the sign of the cross, doth 

say : — 
* ' Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this false 

bridegroom, 
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 
And she was silent ; and the maidens fair 
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 
But on a little streamlet silver-clear. 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
Resumed the dance and song again ; 
The bridegroom only was pale with 
fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies. 
They sang the refrain : — 

"The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom. 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



II. 

And by suffering worn and weary, 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
Thus lamented ]\Iargaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

" He has arrived ! arrived at last i 
Vet Jane has named him not these three 
days past ; 



Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 

And knows that of my night he is the 
star ! 

Knows that long months I wait alone, 
benighted, 

And count the moments since he went 
away ! 

Come ! keep the promise of that happier 
day, 

That 1 may keep the faith to thee I 
plighted ! 

What joy have I without thee ? what 
delight ? 

Grief wastes my life, and makes it mis- 
ery ; 

Day for the others ever, but for me 
Forever night ! forever night ! 

When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is 
sad ! 

I sufi'er ! my God ! come, make me 
glad. 

When he is near, no thoughts of day in- 
trude ; 

Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has 
blue eyes ! 

Within them shines for me a heaven of 
love, 

A heaven all happiness, like that above, 
No more of grief ! no more of lassi- 
tude ! 

Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all 
distresses. 

When seated by my side my hand he 
presses ; 
But when alone, remember all ! 

Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I 
call ! 

A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 
I need some bough to twine around ! 

In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 

True love, they say, in grief doth more 
abound ! 
What then — when one is blind ? 

"Who knows ? perhaps I am for- 
saken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my 
grave ! 

God ! what thoughts within me 
waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps his heavt, in this disguise. 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 



138 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



But some one comes ! Though blind, 

my heart can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is 

he!" 

And the door ajar is set, 
And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sight- 
less eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus 
( ries : — 
' • Angela the bride has passed ! 
I saw the wedding guests go by ; 
Tell me, my sister, why were we not 
asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

"Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

0, speak i who may the bridegroom 

be?" 
"My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy 

friend! " 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing 

said ; 
A milky whiteness spreads upon her 
cheeks ; 
An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 
Descending, as her brother speaks. 
Upon her heart, that has ceased to 

beat, 
Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore dis- 
tressed, 
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and 
pain. 

"Hark ! the joyous airs are ring- 
ing ! 

Sister, dost thou hear them sing- 
ing ? 

How merrily they laugh and jest ! 

Would we were bidden with the 
rest ! 

I weuld don my hose of homespun 
gray, 

And my doublet of linen striped 
and gay ; 

Perhaps they will come ; for they 
do not wed 

Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is 
said ! " 



" I know it ! " answered Margaret 5 
Whom the vision, with aspect black as 
jet. 
Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 
"Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holi- 
day; 
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 
But leave me now for a while alone.'' 
Away, with a hop and a jump, 

went Paul, 
And, as he whistled along the hall. 
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of 

breath ! 
But thou art cold, — art chill as 

death ; 
My little friend ! what ails thee, 

sweet ? " 
"Nothing I I heard them singing home 

the bride ; 
And, as I listened to the song, 
I thought my turn would come 

erelong, 
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
Thy cards forsooth can never lie. 
To me such joy they prophesy. 
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and 

wide 
When they behold him at my 

side. 
And poor Baptiste, what sayest 

thou? 
It must seem long to him ; — methinks 

I see him now I " 
Jane, shuddering, her hand doth 

press : 
' * Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happi- 
ness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love 

him less ! " 
* ' The more I pray, the more I 

love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side I " 
It was enough ; and Jane no more re- 
plied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and 
cold ; 
But to deceive the beldame old 
She takes a sweet, contented air •, 
Speak of foul weather or of fair, 
At every word the maiden smiles ! 
Thus the beguiler she beguiles j 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



139 



So that, departing at the evening's close, 
She says, "She may be saved ! she 
nothing knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no 

prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 



III. 

Now rings the bell, nine times reverber- 
ating. 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the 

Sees in two cottages two maidens wait- 
ing, 
How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed. 
The one puts on her cross and 

crown. 
Decks with a huge bouquet her 

breast. 
And flaunting, fluttering up and 

down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
The other, blind, within her little 

room. 
Has neither crown nor flower's per- 
fume ; 
But in their stead for something gropes 

apart, 
That in a drawer's recess doth lie. 
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet 

dye. 
Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing, 

And joyous singing. 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her 
brow, 
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon 
the floor, 
^nd whispers, as her brother opes the 
door, 
** God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and 

blind, 
Conducted by her brother's hand. 



Towards the church, through paths 

unscanned. 
With tranquil air, her way doth 
wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and 
pale. 
Round her at times exhale. 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapors gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see, 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every 

part. 
Marvels of nature and of art. 

And proud of its name of high 

degree, 
A little chapel, almost bare 
At the base of the rock, is builded 

there ; 
All glorious that it lifts aloof. 
Above each jealous cottage roof. 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn 

gales. 
And its blackened steeple high in air. 
Round which the osprey screams 

and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus ]\Iargaret said. ' ' Where are we ? 

we ascend ! " 
" Yes ; seest thou not our journey's 

end? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry 

cry? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, 

we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father 

said. 
The night we watched beside his 

bed, 
' daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am 

dying ! ' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to cry-, 

ing? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed 

aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in his 

shroud. 
There is his grave ; there stands the 

cross we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Mar- 
garet ? 
Come in ! The bride will be here 

soon : 
Thou tremblest ! my God ! thou art 

going to swoon ! " 



140 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



She could no more, — the blind girl, 

weak and weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave 

so dreary, 
"What wouldst thou do, my daugh- 
ter ? " — and she started, 
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint- 
hearted ; 
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 

Her steps towards the open door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the un- 
happy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house im- 
mortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on 
again. 
Touches the crown of filigrane 
Suspended from the low-arched 

portal. 
No more restrained, no more afraid, 
She walks, as for a feast arrayed. 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre 
night 
They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell. 
With booming sound. 
Sends forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down 
the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and 
with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not 

long. 
For soon arrives the bridal train. 
And with it brings the village 
throng. 

m sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay. 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant 

day. 
Mute as an idiot, sad as y ester-morning. 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of 

warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 
To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 
Feels her heart swell to hear all round 

her whisper, 
"How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 

But she must calm that giddy 

head, 
For already the Mass is said ; 
At the holy table stands the priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste 

receives it ; 



Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves 
it, 
He must pronounce one word at 
least ! 

'Tis spoken ; and sudden at the grooms- 
man's side 

"'Tis he!" a well-known voice has 
cried. 

And while the wedding guests all hold 
their breath, 

Opes the confessional, and the blind 
girl, see ! 

" Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast 
wished my death, 

As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 

And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 

Doubtless her guardian angel near at- 
tended, 
For anguish did its work so well, 
That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air ; 
Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear ; 
Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day. 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to 
say : — 

"' The road should mourn and be veiled 

in gloom. 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, 

well-away I 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



A CHRISTMAS CAPtOL. 

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI 
BAROZAI. 

I HEAR along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs ; 
Hark ! they play so sweet. 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 



INTRODUCTION. 



141 



Let us by the tire 
Ever higher 
■Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where tlie Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the tire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet ; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide, 



For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times havo tried. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

Washerwomen old. 
To the sound they beat. 
Sing by rivers cold. 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 
But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 



INTRODUCTION. 

Should you ask me, whence these sto- 
ries ? 
Whence these legends and traditions. 
With the odors of the forest, 
With the dew and damp of meadows, 
With the curling smoke of wigwams, 
With the rushing of great rivers. 
With their frequent repetitions, 
And their wild reverberations. 
As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 
* ' From the forests and the prairies, 
>From the great lakes of the Northland, 
From the land of the Ojibways, 
From the land of the Dacotahs, 
From the mountains, moors, and fen- 
lands, 
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 
I repeat them as I heard them 
From the lips of Nawadaha, 
The musician, the sweet singer." 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 
Found these songs, so wild and wayward, 
Found these legends and traditions. 



I should answer, I should tell you, 
•' In the bird's-nests of the forest, 
In the lodges of the beaver. 
In the hoof-prints of the bison. 
In the eyry of the eagle ! 

" All the wild-fowl sang them to him, 
In the moorlands and the fen-lands. 
In the melancholy marshes ; 
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Musnkodasa ! " 

If still further you should ask me. 
Saying, " Who >vas Nawadaha? 
Tell us of this Nawadaha,'' 
I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in sucli words as follow. 

"In the Vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley. 
By the pleasant water-courses. 
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 
Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, 
And beyond them stood the forest. 
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees. 
Green in Summer, white in Winter, 
Ever sighing, ever singing. 



14'2 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" And the pleasant water-courses, 
You could trace them through the valley, 
By the rushing in the Spring-time, 
By the alders in the Summer, 
By the white fog in the Autumn, 
By the black line in the Winter ; 
And beside them dwelt the singer, 
In the vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley. 

" There he sang of Hiawatha, 
Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 
Sang his wondrous birth and being, 
How he prayed and how he fasted. 
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered. 
That the tribes of men might prosper. 
That he might advance his people ! " 

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow. 
Love the shadow of the forest. 
Love the wind among the branches. 
And the rain- shower and the snow-storm, 
And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their palisades of pine-trees. 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 
Listen to these wild traditions, 
.To this Song of HiaAvatha ! 
[^ Ye who love a nation's legends. 
Love the ballads-of a people. 
That Itke voices from afar off 
Call to us to pause and listen. 
Speak in tones so plain and childlike, 
Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple. 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 
Who believe, that in all ages 
Every human heart is human. 
That in even savage bosoms 
There are longings, yearnings, strivings 
For the good they comprehend not. 
That the feeble hands and helpless. 
Groping blindly in the darkness. 
Touch God's right hand in that darkness 
And are lifted up and strengthened ; — 
Listen to this simple story. 
To this Song of Hiawatha ! 

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the country. 
Where the tangled barberry-bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses. 
Pause by some neglected graveyard, 
For a while to muse, and ponder 



On a half-effaced inscription. 
Written with little skill of song-craft, 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 
Full of all the tender pathos 
Of the Here and the Hereafter ; — 
Stay and read this rude inscription. 
Read this Song of Hiawatha ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 



On the Mountains of the Prairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
He the Master of Life, descending. 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations, 
Called the tribes of men together. 

From his footprints flowed a river, 
Leaped into the light of morning, 
O'er the precipice plunging downward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
And the Spirit, stooi3ing earthward, 
W^ith his finger on the meadow- 
Traced a winding pathway for it, 
Saying to it, ' ' Run in this way ! " 

From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment. 
Moulded it into a pipe-head. 
Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; 
From the margin of the river 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem. 
With its dark gi'een leaves upon it ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
With the bark of the red Avillow ; 
Breathed upon the neighboring forest, 
]\Iade its great boughs chafe together, 
Till in flame they burst and kindled ; 
And erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morning, 
First a single line of darkness, 
Then a denser, bluer vapor. 
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, 
Like the tree-tops of the forest, 
Ever rising, rising, rising. 
Till it touched the top of heaven, 
Till it broke against the heaven, 
And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 



143 



From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-olf Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers 
All the tribes beheld the signal. 
Saw the distant smoke ascending, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the Prophets of the nations 
Said : " Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow. 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Calls the tribes of men together. 
Calls the warriors to his council ! " 

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear. 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other ; 
In their faces stern deliance, 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred. 
The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The creator of the nations, 
Looked upon them with compassion. 
With paternal love and pity ; 
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling 
But as quarrels among children. 
But as feuds and fights of children ! 

Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdtte their stubborn natures. 
To allay their thirst and fever, 
By the shadow of his right hand ; 
Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses. 
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise •. — 

*' my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom. 
Listen to the words of warning, 
From the lips of the Great Spirit, 
From the Master of Life, who made you 
" I have given jou lands to hunt in, 



I have given you streams to fish in> 
I have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 
I have given you brant and beaver, 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 
Why then are you not contented ? 
Why then will you hunt each other ? 

" I am weary of your quarrels. 
Weary of your wars and bloodshed. 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings and dissensions ; 
All your strength is in your union. 
All your danger is in discord ; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward, 
And as brothers live together. 

' ' I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations. 
Who shall guide you and shall teach you, 
Who shall toil and suffer with you. 
If you listen to his counsels, 
You will multiply and prosper ; 
If his warnings pass unheeded. 
You will fade away and perish ! 

" Bathe now in the stream before you. 
Wash the war-paint from your faces. 
Wash the blood- stains from your fingers. 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons. 
Break the red stone from this quarry. 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you. 
Deck them with your brightest feathers, 
Smoke the calumet together, 
And as brothei'S live henceforward ! " 

Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer- 
skin,. 
Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river. 
Washed the war-paint from their faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water. 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending ; 
Dark below them flowed the water. 
Soiled and stained with streaks of crim- 
son, 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors. 
Clean and washed from all their war- 
paint ; 
On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the creator. 
Smiled upon his helpless chiklren ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarrv- 



144 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Smoothed and formed it into Peace- 

Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river, 
Decked them with their brightest feath- 
ers, 
And departed each one homeward, 
While the Master of Life, ascending, 
Through the opening of cloud-curtains, 
Through the doorways of the heaven, 
Vanished from before their faces, 
In the smoke that rolled around him. 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe ! 



II. 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
Cried the warriors, cried the old men. 
When he came in tiiumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokw^a, 
From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations. 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous 
On the summit of the mountains. 
Like a rock with mosses on it. 
Spotted brown and gray with mosse.s. 

Silently he stole upon him. 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him. 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not, 
Over the long nose and nostrils, 
The black muffle of the nostrils. 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he swung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry. 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead. 
Right between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow bewildered. 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains ; 
But his knees beneath him trembled, 
And he whimpered like a woman. 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches ; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 



Standing fearlessly before him. 
Taunted him in loud derision. 
Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

" Hark you, Bear ! you are a coward, 
And no Brave, as you pretended ; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 
Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together ; 
Now you find that we are strongest, 
You go sneaking in the forest. 
You go hiding in the mountains ! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have uttered ; 
But you. Bear! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying, 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman ! " 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead. 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains, 
He the terror of the nations. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
With a shout exclaimed the people, 
" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West- Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West- Wind ! " 

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West-Wind, 
Gave the others to his children ; 
Unto Wabun gave the East- Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasce, 
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka, 

Young and beautiful was Wabun ; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it w^as whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley ; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson. 
And whose voice awoke the village. 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun ; 
Though the birds sang gayly to him. 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 
Filled the air with odors for him, 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming. 



THE FOUR WINDS. 



145 



Still his heart was sad within him, 
For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward. 
While the village still was sleeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise. 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone npon a meadow. 
Gathering water- flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow. 

Every morning, gazing earthward, 
Still the first thing he beheld there 
Was her blue eyes looking at him. 
Two blue lakes among the rushes. 
And he loved the lonely maiden. 
Who thus waited for his coming ; 
For they both were solitary, 
She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with caresses, 
Wooed her v.^ith his smile of sunshine. 
With his flattering words he wooed her, 
With his sighing and his singing. 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 
Softest music, sweetest odors, 
Till he drew her to his bosom. 
Folded in his robes of crimson. 
Till into a star he changed her, 
Trembling still upon his bosom ; 
And forever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun and the Star of JMorning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Had his dwelling among icebergs, 
In the everlasting snow-drifts, 
In the kingdom of Wabasso, 
In the land of the AVhite Rabbit. 
He it was whos3 hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet. 
Stained the leaves with red and yellow ; 
He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 
Sifting, hissing through the forest. 
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull southward. 
Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee. 
Once the fierce Kabibonokka 
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, 
From his home among the icebergs. 
And his hair, with snow besprinkled. 
Streamed behind him like a river. 
Like a black and wintry river, 
As he howled and hurried southward. 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 

There among the reeds and rushes 
round he Shingebis, the diver, 
10 



Trailing strings of fish behind him. 
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands. 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 
Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 
" Who is this that dares to brave me ? 
Dares to stay in my dominions. 
When the Wawa has departed. 
When the wild-goose has gone south 

ward. 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long ago departed southward ? 
I will go into his wigwam, 
I will put his smouldering fire out ! " 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it. 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue. 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury. 
Flapped the curtain of the door- way. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not ; 
Four great logs had he for firewood, 
One for each moon of the winter. 
And for food the fishes served him. 
By his blazing fire he sat there. 
Warm and merry, eating, laughing, 
Singing, " Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Then Kabibonokka entered. 
And though Shingebis, the diver. 
Felt his presence by the coldness, 
Felt his icy breath upon him. 
Still he did not cease his singing, 
Still he did not leave his laughing, 
Only turned the log a little, 
Only made the fire burn brighter. 
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 

From Kabibonokka's forehead. 
From his snow-besprinkled tresses, 
Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy. 
Making dints upon the ashes. 
As along the eaves of lodges, 
As from drooping boughs of hemlock. 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time, 
Making hollows in the snow-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated. 
Could not bear the heat and laughter. 
Could not bear the merry singing. 
But rushed headlong through the door- 
way. 
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers. 
Made the snow upon them harder. 
Made the ice upon them thicker, 
Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 



146 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his planting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler. 
Till he reeled and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten. 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver. 
Singing, " Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 
In the never-ending Summer. 
He it was who sent the wood-bii'ds, 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow. 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward. 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 
And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor. 
Filled the air with dreamy softness, 
Gave a twinkle to the water. 
Touched the rugged hills with smooth- 
ness, 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land. 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward. 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 
Brightest green were all her garments. 
And her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her. 
Day by day he sighed with passion. 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 
But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her ; 
Ves, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her. 
So he only gazed upon her, 



Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking northward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er jvith white- 
ness. 
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. 
" Ah ! my brother from the North 

land. 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, . 
You have wooed and won my maiden, 
With your stories of the North-land ! " 

Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrow ; 
And the South- Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion. 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 
And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight forever ; 
Never more did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor, deluded Shawondasee ! 
'T was no woman that you gazed at, 
'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 
'T was the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing. 
You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puff"ed away forever. 
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah ! deluded Shawondasee J 

Thus the Four Winds were divided ; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens. 
At the corners of the heavens ; 
For himself the West- Wind only 
Kejit the mighty Mudjekeewis. 



III. 

Hiawatha's childhood. 

Downward through the evening twi- 
light. 
In the days that are forgotten, 
In the unremembered ages. 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 
She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, - 



HIAWATHA S CHILDHOOD. 



147 



When her rival, the rejected, 

Full of jealousy and hatred. 

Cut the leafy swing asunder, 

Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, 

And ISTokomis fell aftVightea 

Downward through the evening twilight. 

On the Muskoday, the meadow. 

On the prairie full of blossoms. 

"See ! a star falls ! " said the people ; 

**From the sky a star is falling ! " 

There among the ferns and mosses, 
There among tlie prairie lilies, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wenonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 
And the daughter of N'okomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies. 
Grew a tall and slender maiden, 
With the beauty of the moonlight, 
With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 
*' 0, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis ; 
Listen not to what he tells you ; 
Lie not down upon the meadow, 
Stoop not down among the lilies, 
Lest the West- Wind come and harm 
you ! " 

But she heeded not the warning. 
Heeded not those words of wisdom. 
And the West-Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie. 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses. 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies, 
Wooed her with his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses, 
Till she bore a son in sorrow, 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder ; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother, 
In her anguish died deserted 
By the West- Wind, false and faithless. 
By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 
" that I were dead ! " she murmured, 
" that I were dead, as thou art ! 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 



By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them ; 
Bright before it beat the water. 
Beat the clear and sunny water. 
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle. 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes. 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
" Hush ! the Naked Bear will hear 

thee ! " 
Lulled him into slumber, singing, 
' ' Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 
Who is this, that lights the wigwam ? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam ? 
Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! " 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits. 
Warriors with their plumes and war- 
clubs. 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter ; 
Showed the broad, white road in heaven, 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha ; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water. 
Sounds of music, words of wonder ; 
" Minne-wawa ! " said the pine-trees, 
" Mudway-aushka ! " said the water. 

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening. 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes. 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him . 
"Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly. 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature. 
Light me with your little candle, 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids ! " 

Saw the moon rise from the water 
Rippling, rounding frcrm the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 



148 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Whispered, " What is that, Nokomis ? " 

And the good Nokomis answered : 

"Once a warrior, very angry, 

Seized his grandmother, and threw her 

Up into the sky at midnight ; 

Right against the moon he threw her ; 

'Tis her body that you see there." 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 
Whispered, " What is that, Nokomis ? " 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
"'Tis the heaven of flowers you see 

there ; 
All the wild-flowers of the forest. 
All the lilies of the prairie, 
When on earth they fade and perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above us." 

When he heard the owls at midnight, 
Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
" What is that ? " he cried in terror ; 
" What is that ? " he said, " Nokomis ? " 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" That is but the owl and owlet. 
Talking in their native language. 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themseh^es in Winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." 

Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit Avas so timid, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them. 
Called them " Hiawatha's Brothers." 

Then lagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
He the traveller and the talker. 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha ; 
From a branch of ash he made it, 
From an oak-bough made the arrows. 
Tipped with flint, and winged with 

feathers, 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 
" Go, my son, into the forest, 
Where the red deer herd together, 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer iN'ith antlers ! " 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 



I Proudly, with his bow and arrows ; 
I And the birds sang round him, o'er him, 
j " Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
j " Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 
I Up the oak-tree, close beside him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
[ In and out among the branches. 
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, 
Laughed, and said between his laughing, 
" Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Half in fear and half in frolic, 
Saying to the little hunter, 
" Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

But he heeded not, nor heard them. 
For his thoughts were with the red deer ; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened. 
Leading downward to the river, 
To the ford across the river, 
And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes. 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted. 
Saw two eyes look from the thicket, 
Saw two nostrils point to windward, 
And a deer came down the pathway. 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered. 
Trembled like the leaves above him. 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated. 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; 
Scarce a twig moved with his motion, 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled. 
But the wary roebuck started, 
Stamped with all his hoofs together. 
Listened with one foot uplifted. 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow ; 
Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow, 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest. 
By the ford across the river ; 
Beat his timid heart no longer. 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted. 
As he bore the red deer homeward. 
And lagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis 
Made a banquet in his honor, 



HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 



149 



All the village came and feasted, 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha ! 
Called him Loon -Heart, Mahn-go-taysee ! 



IV. 

HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters, 
Learned in all the lore of old men. 
In all youthful sports and pastimes. 
In all manly arts and labors. 

Swift of foot was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot an arrow from him, 
And run forward with such fleetness, 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 
Strong of arm was Hiaw^atha ; 
He could shoot ten arrows upward, 
Shoot them with such strength and 

swiftness, 
That the tenth had left the bow-string 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 

He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
When upon his hands he wore them. 
He could smite the rocks asunder. 
He could grind them into powder. 
He had moccasins enchanted. 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his ankles. 
When upon his feet he tied them. 
At each stride a mile he measured ! 

Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 
Of the beauty of his mother. 
Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him. 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said to old Nokomis, 
" I will go to Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father, 
At the doorways of the West- Wind, 
At the portals of the Sunset ! " 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dressed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings. 
Richly wrought with quills and wampum ; 
On his head his eagle-feathers. 
Round his waist his belt of wampum, 
In his hand his bow of ash-wood. 
Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 
In his quiver oaken arrows, 



Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers ; 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
With his moccasins enchanted. 

Warning said the old Nokomis, 
*' Go not forth, Hiawatha ! 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 
To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 
Lest he harm you with his magic, 
Lest he kill you with his cunning ! " 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman's warning ; 
Forth he strode into the forest. 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him, 
Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 
Hot and close the air around him, 
Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 
As of burning woods and prairies, 
For his heart was hot within him. 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

So he journeyed westward, westward, 
Left the fleetest deer behind him, 
Left the antelope and bison ; 
Crossed the rushing Esconaba, 
Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 
Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 
Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
At the aspect of his father. 
On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled w'ith joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 
Saw his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha, 
Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before him. 

"Welcome ! " said he, "Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind ! 
Long have I been waiting for you ! 
Youth is lovely, age is lonely. 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 
You bring back the days departed. 
You bring back my youth of passion, 
And the beautiful Wenonah ! " 

Many days they talked together, 
Questioned, listened, waited, answered 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 



150 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Boasted of his ancient prowess, 
Of his perilous adventures, 
His indomitable courage, 
His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 
Listening to his father's boasting ; 
With a smile he sat and listened, 
Uttered neither threat nor menace, 
Neither word nor look betrayed hiui. 
But his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

Then he said, " Mudjekeewis, 
Is there nothing that can harm you ? 
Nothing that you are afraid of ? " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Grand and gracious in his boasting, 
Answered, saying, " There is nothing, 
Nothing but the black rock yonder, 
Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek ? " 

And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant. 
With a countenance paternal, 
Looked with pride upon the beauty 
Of his tall and graceful figure, 
Saying, " my Hiawatha ! 
Is there anything can harm you ? 
Anything you are afraid of ?" 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 
Held his peace, as if resolving, 
And then answered, "There is nothing. 
Nothing but the bulrush yonder, 
Nothing but the great Apukwa ! " 

And as Mudjekeewis, rising. 
Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror. 
Cried in well-dissembled terror, 
" Kago ! kago ! do not touch it ! " 
"Ah, kaween !" said Mudjekeewis, 
" No indeed, I will not touch it ! " 

Then they talked of other matters ; 
First of Hiawatha's brothers. 
First of Wabun, of the East- Wind, 
Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, 
Of the North, Kabibonokka ; 
Then of Hiawatha's mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow. 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 

A-nd he cried, "0 JMudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your footsteps ; 
You confess it ! you confess it ! " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 



Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 
Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 
With a silent nod assented. 

Then up stai-ted Hiawatha, 
And w^ith threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Eent the jutting crag asunder, 
Smote and crushed it into fragments 
Hurled them madly at his father. 
The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was liot within him. 
Like a living coal his heart Avas. 

But the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward from him, 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger, 
Blew them back at his assailant ; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it Avith its roots and fibre? 
From the margin of the meadow, 
Fi'om its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha 1 

Then began the deadly conflict. 
Hand to hand among the mountains ; 
From his eyry screamed the eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle 
Sat upon the crags around them, 
Wheeling flapped his wings above them. 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush ; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 
Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 
And the air was full of shoutings, 
And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, " Baim-wawa ! " 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 
Rushing westward o'er the mountains, 
Stumbling westward down the moun- 

, tains, 
Three whole days retreated fighting, 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 
To the doorways of the West-Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth's remotest border. 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall, 
In the melancholy marshes. 

"Hold!" at length cried Mudjekep 
wis, 
"Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 
'T is impossible to kill me, 
For you cannot kill the immortal. 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 



151 



I have put you to this trial, 

But to know and prove your courage ; 

Now receive the prize of valor ! 

*' Go back to your home and people, 
Live among them, toil among them. 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers. 
Slay all monsters and magicians. 
All the Wendigoes, the giants, 
All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 
As I slew the Mishe-jVIokwa, 
Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. 

"And at last when Death draws near 

you, 

When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you. 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest-Wind,. Keewaydin, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin." 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed, 
In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far o'er hill and valley ; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 

Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 
Pleasant was the landscape round him. 
Pleasant was the air above him. 
For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him, 
From his brain the thought of vengeance, 
From his heart the burning fever. 

Only once his pace he slackened, 
Only once he paused or halted. 
Paused to purchase heads of arrows 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Where the Falls of Minnehaha 
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, 
Laugh and leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 
Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper. 
Smoothed and 'sharpened at the edges. 
Hard and polished, keen and costly. 

With him dwelt his dark-eyed daugh- 
ter. 
Wayward as the Minnehaha, 
With her moods of shade and sunshine. 
Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, 
Feet as rapid as the river, 



Tresses flowing like the water. 
And as musical a laughter ; 
And he named her from the river, 
From the water-fall he named her, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 

AVas it then for heads of arrows. 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
Arrow-heads of flint and jasper. 
That my Hiawatha halted 
In the land of the Dacotahs ? 

Was it not to see the maiden, 
See the face of Laughing Water 
Peeping from behind the curtain. 
Hear the rustling of her garments 
From behind the waving curtain. 
As one sees the Minnehaha 
Gleaming, glancing through the branch 

es, 
As one hears the Laughing W^ater 
From behind its screen of branches ? 

Who shall say what thoughts and 
visions 
Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 
Who shall say what dreams of beauty 
Filled the heart of Hiawatha ? 
All he told to old Nokomis, 
When he reached the lodge at sunset, 
Was the meeting with his father. 
Was his fight with ]\Iudjekeewis ; 
Not a word he said of arrows. 
Not a word of Laughing Water. 



V. 

Hiawatha's fasting. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha 
Prayed and fasted in the forest, 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
Not for greater craft in fishing, 
Not for triumphs in the battle. 
And renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people. 
For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting. 
Built a wigwam in the forest. 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, 
In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 
And, with dreams and visions many. 
Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 

On the first day of his fasting 
Through the leafy woods he wandered ; 
Saw the deer start from the thicket, 
Saw the rabbit in his burrow. 
Heard the pheasant, Bejia, drumming, 



152 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Rattling in his hoard of acorns. 
Saw the pigeon, the Onieme, 
Building nests among the pine-trees, 
And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, 
Flying to the fen-lands northward. 
Whirring, wailing far above him. 
"Master of Life !" he cried, despond- 
ing, 
''Must our lives depend on these 
things ? " 
On the next day of his fasting 
By the river's brink he wandered. 
Through the Muskoday, the meadow. 
Saw the Avild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 
Trailing o'er the alder-branches. 
Filling all the air with fragrance ! 
"Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding, 
" Must our lives depend on these 
things ? " 
On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered. 
By the still, transparent water ; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping. 
Scattering drops like beads of wampum, 
Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
And the herring, Okahahwis, 
And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish ! 
"Master of Life !" he cried, despond- 
ing, 
"Must our lives depend on these 
things ?" 
On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 
From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids, 
Full of shadowy dreams and visions. 
On th^ dizzy, swimming landscape, 
On the gleaming of the water, 
On the splendor of the sunset. 

And he saw a youth approaching, 
Dressed in garments green and yellow 
Coming through the purple twilight. 
Through the splendor of the sunset ; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead. 
And his hair was soft and golden. 
Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 
On his wasted form and features. 
And, in accents like the sighing 



Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 
Said he, "0 my Hiawatha ! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven, 
For you pray not like the others ; 
Not for greater skill in hunting, 
Not for greater craft in fishing. 
Not for triumph in the battle. 
Nor renown among the warriors. 
But for profit of the people. 
For advantage of the nations. 

' ' From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you. 
How by struggle and by labor 
You shall gain what you have prayed for. 
Rise up from your bed of branches. 
Rise, youth, and wre^le with me ! " 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches. 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin , 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom. 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 
And the more they strove and struggled. 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha ; 
Till the darkness fell around them. 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees. 
Gave a cry of lamentation. 
Gave a scream of pain and famine. 

" 'T is enough ! " then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
" But to-morrow, Avhen the sun sets, 
1 Avill come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not ; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not. 
Only saw that he had vanished. 
Leaving him alone and fainting, 
With the misty lake below him. 
And the reeling stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day. 
When the sun through heaven descenu 

ing, 
Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 
Fell into the western waters. 
Came Mondamin for the trial. 
For the strife with Hiawatha ; 
Came as silent as the dew comes, 
From the empty air appearing, 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 



153 



into empty air returning, 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset. 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees, 
Uttered her loud cry of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments green and yellow ; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, " Hiawatha ! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me. 
And the Master of Life, who sees us. 
He will give to you the triumph I " 

Then he smiled, and said : " To-mor- 
row 
Is the last day of your conflict, 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me ; 
Make a bed for me to lie in, 
Where the rain may fall upon me, 
Where the sun may come and warm me 
Strip these garments, green and yellow, 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

" Let no hand disturb my slumber. 
Let no weed nor worm molest me. 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me. 
Only come yourself to watch me. 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken. 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departed ; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining. 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam ; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him, 
Talking to the darksome forest ; 
Heard the sighing of the branches. 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the jiassing of the night- wind. 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers ; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 



Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not, 
Only said to her, " Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting. 
Till the darkness falls around us, 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes. 
Tells us that the day is ended." 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail him. 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward. 
Lengthened over field and forest, 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven, 
Floating on the waters westward. 
As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water. 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses, 
With his garments green and yellow, 
With his long and glossy plumage, 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking. 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape, 
Sky and forest reeled together. 
And his strong heart leaped within him, 
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon. 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion. 
Palpitating with the struggle ; 
And before him, breathless, lifeless. 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled. 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded. 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 



154 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
AVhere he wrestled with Mondamin ; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine. 
Where his scattered plumes and garments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiaw^atha 
Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another, 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it. 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, " It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! " 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And logoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize was grow- 
ing. 
Told them of his wondrous vision. 
Of his wrestling and his triumph. 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food forever. 

And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yellow. 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow. 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from off 

them. 
As he once had stripped the wrestler. 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 



TI. 

Hiawatha's friends. 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 
Singled out from all the others, 



Bound to him in closest union. 

And to whom he gave the right hand 

Of his heart, in joy and sorrow ; 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

Straight between them ran the path 
way. 
Never grew the grass upon it ; 
Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 
Found no eager ear to listen. 
Could not breed ill-will between theni. 
For they kept each other's counsel, 
Spake with naked hearts together. 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers. 
Beautiful and childlike was he, 
Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
Pliant as a wand of willow. 
Stately as a deer with antlers. 

When he sang, the village listened ; 
All the warriors gathered round him, 
All the women came to hear him ; 
Now he stirred their souls to passion. 
Now he melted them to pity. 

From the hollow reeds he fashioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow. 
That the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Ceased to murmur in the woodland. 
That the wood-birds ceased from singing. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree. 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Sat upright to look and listen. 

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Pausing, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach my waves to flow in music, 
Softly as your words in singing ! " 

Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Envious, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as wild and wayward, 
Teach me songs as full of frenzy !" 

Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 
Joyous, said, " Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as sweet and tender. 
Teach me songs as full of gladness ! " 

And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing, said, "0 Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as melancholy, 
Teach me songs as full of sadness ! " 

All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 
All the hearts of men were softened 



HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 



155 



By the pathos of his music ; 
For he sang of peace and freedom, 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing ; 
Sang of deatli, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 
In the kingdom of Ponemah, 
In the land of the Hereafter. 

Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers ; 
For his gentleness he loved him, 
And the magic of his singing. 

Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
"Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 
He the strongest of all mortals, 
He the mightiest among many ; 
For his very strength he loved him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 

Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 
Very listless, dull, and dreamy, 
Never played with other children, 
Never fished and never hunted, 
Not like other children was he ; 
But they saw that much he fasted, 
Much his Manito entreated, 
Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his mother, 
*' In my work you never help me ! 
In the Summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forests ; 
In the Winter you are cowering 
O'er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 
In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing ; 
With my nets you never help me ! 
A-t the door my nets are hanging, 
Dripping, freezing with the water ; 
Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 
Go and dry them in the sunshine ! " 

Slowly, from the aslies, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry answer ; 
From the lodge went forth in silence. 
Took the nets, that hung together, 
Dripping, freezing at the doorway, 
Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw he broke them. 
Could not wring them without breaking, 
Such the strength was in his fingers. 

"Lazy Kwasind ! " said his father, 
" In the hunt you never help me ; 
Every bow you touch is broken, 
Snapped asunder every arrow ; 
Yet come with me to the forest. 
You shall bring the hunting homeward." 

Down a narrow pass they wandered. 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 



Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 
Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted. 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise. 
And forbidding further passage. 

" We must go back," said the old man, 
" O'er these logs we cannot clamber ; 
Not a woodchuck could get through 

them. 
Not a squirrel clamber o'er them ! " 
And straightway his pipe he lighted, 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him ; 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted. 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 

"Lazy Kwasind !" said the young men. 
As they sported in the meadow : 
" Why stand idly looking at us. 
Leaning on the rock behind you ? 
Come and wrestle with the others. 
Let us pitch the quoit together ! " 

Lazy Kwasind made no answer. 
To their challenge made no answer, 
Only rose, and, slowly turning. 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 
Tore it from its deep foundation. 
Poised it in the air a moment, 
Pitched it sheer into the river, 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 
Kwasind sailed with his companions, 
In the stream he saw a bea-v^er, 
Saw Alimeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling Avith the rushing currents, 
Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river. 
Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, 
Through the whirlpools chased the bea- 
ver. 
Followed him among the islands, 
Stayed so long beneath the water. 
That his terrified companions 
Cried, ' ' Alas ! good by to Kwasind ! 
We shall never more see Kwasind ! " 
But he reappeared triumphant, 
And upon his shining shoulders 
Brought the beaver, ( j^g^ and dripping 
Brought the King ofiflrtlie Beavers. 

And these twQ» as-T have told you, 



twQ» a 



156 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Were the friends of Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Long they lived in peace together, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 



VII. 

Hiawatha's sailing. 

*' Give me of your bark, Birch-Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river, 
Tall and stately in the valley ! 
I alight canoe will build me, 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 
That shall float upon the river. 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 

" Lay aside your cloak, Birch-Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, 
For the Summer-time is coming, 
And the sun is wai-m in heaven. 
And you need no white-skin wrapper ! " 

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest. 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 
When the birds were singing gayly. 
In the Moon of Leaves w^ere singing. 
And the sun, from sleep awaking. 
Started up and said, " Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! " 

And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning. 
Saying, wdth a sigh of patience, 
"Take my cloak, Hiawatha ! " 

With his knife the tree he girdled ; 
Just beneath its lowest branches. 
Just above the roots, he cut it. 
Till the sap came oozing outward ; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom. 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 
With a wooden wedge he raised it. 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 

" Give me of your boughs, Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches. 
My canoe to make more steady. 
Make more strong and firm beneath me ! " 

Through the summit of the Cedar 



Went a sound 
Went a mur 
But it whisp 
' ' Take my b^ 
Down he 



cry of horror, 
esistance ; 
ding downward, 
Hiawatha ! " 
boughs of cedar, 




Shaped them straightway to a frame- 
work. 
Like two bows he formed and shaped 

them, 
Like two bended bows together. 

" Give me of your roots, Tamarack ! 
Of your fibrous roots, Larch-Tree ! 
My canoe to bind together. 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter. 
That the river may not Avet me ! " 

And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning. 
Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
" Take them all, Hiawatha ! " 

From the earth he tore the fibres. 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together. 
Bound it closely to the framework. 

Give me of your balm, Fir-Tree ! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre. 
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, 
Eattled like a shore with pebbles. 
Answered wailing, ansAvered weeping, 
"Take my balm, Hiawatha ! " 

And he took the tears of balsam. 
Took the resin of the 'Fir-Tree, 
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, 
Made each crevice safe from water. 

* ' Give me of your quills, Hedgehog ! 
All your quills, Kagh, the Hedgehog I 
I will make a necklace of them. 
Make a girdle for my beauty. 
And two stars to deck her bosom ! " 

From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 
With his sleepy eyes looked at him. 
Shot his shining quills, like arrows. 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur. 
Through the tangle of his whiskers, 
" Take my quills, Hiawatha ! " 

From the ground the quills he gatherea, 
All the little shining arrows. 
Stained them red and blue and yellow, 
With the juice of roots and berries ; 
Into his canoe he wrought them. 
Round its waist a shining girdle. 
Round its bows a gleaming necklace, 
On its breast two stars resplendent. 

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river. 
In tlfie bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest's life was in it, 



HIAWATHA^'S FISHING. 



157 



All its mystery and. its magic, 
All the lightness of the birch-tree. 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch's supple sinews ; 
And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Hiawatha, 
Paddles r me he had or needed, 
For his thoughts as paddles served him, 
And his wishes served to guide him ; 
Swift or slow at will he glided. 
Veered to right or left at pleasure. 

Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 
Saying, ' ' Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." 

Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 
Dived as if he were a beaver. 
Stood up to his waist in water, 
To his arm-pits in the river. 
Swam and shouted in the river, 
Tugged at sunken logs and branches. 
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, 
With his feet the ooze and tangle. 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 
Sailed through all its bends and windings, 
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows. 
While his friend, the strong man, Kwa- 
sind, 
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 

Up and down the river went they, 
In and out among its islands. 
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar. 
Dragged the dead trees from its channel, 
Made its passage safe and certain, 
Made a pathway for the people, 
From its springs among the mountains, 
To the waters of Pauwating, 
To the bay of Taquamenaw. 



VIII. 

Hiawatha's fishing. 

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 
On the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
With his fishing-line of cedar, 
Of the twisted bark of cedar, 
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 
In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha. 

Through the clear, transparent water 



He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him ; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water. 
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish. 
Like a spider on the bottom. 
On the white and sandy bottom. 

At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar ; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock branches ; 
On the bows, with tail erected. 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo ; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses. 

On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay the sturgeon. King of Fishes ; 
Through his gills he breathed the water, 
With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 

There he lay in all his armor ; 
On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone uporx his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and shoulders 
Plates of bone with spines projecting ! 
Painted was he with his war-paints. 
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure. 
Spots of brown and spots of sable ; 
And he lay there on the bottom. 
Fanning with his fins of purple. 
As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch canoe came sailing. 
With his fishing-line of cedar. 

"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha, 
Down into the depths beneath him, 
' ' Take my bait, Sturgeon, Nahma ! 
Come up from below the water, 
Let us see which is the stronger ! " 
And he dropped his line of cedar 
Tb rough the clear, transparent water, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer. 
And repeating loud and louder, 
"Take my bait, King of Fishes ! " 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water. 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamor. 
His unnecessary tumult, 
Till he wearied of the shouting ; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 
To the pike, the Maskenozha, 
" Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten ; 



158 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.. 



As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the lish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
Vou are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the lish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-lish, 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
"Take the bait of this great boaster. 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it. 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles. 
Round and round in gurgling eddies. 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 

But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent. 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
You are not the fish I wanted. 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Slowly downward, wavering, gleam- 
ing, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult. 
Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor. 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint ; 
In his wrath he darted u})ward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine. 
Opened liis great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 



Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness, 
Groped about in helpless wonder. 
Till he felt a great heart beating. 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger, 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it. 
Sick at heart, and faint and Aveary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gayly, 
Toiled and tugged with HiaAvatha 
Till the labor was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 
"0 my little friend, the squirrel. 
Bravely have you toiled to help me ; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you ! " 

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin. 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles. 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 

Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
As of many wings assembling. 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending. 
Saw a gleam of light above him. 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering. 
Gazing at him through the opening. 
Heard them saying to each other, 
" 'T is our brother, Hiawatha ! " 

And he shouted from below them. 
Cried exulting from the caverns : 
** ye sea-gulls ! my brothers ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 
Make the rifts a little largei-, 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 



159 



With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements. 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! " 

And the wild and clamorous sea- 
gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together. 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison. 
From the body of the sturgeon. 
From the peril of the water. 
They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam, 
On the margin of the water. 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 

" I liave slain the Mishe-Nahrna, 
Slain the King of Fishes ! " said he ; 
" Look ! the sea-gulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls ; 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great peril 
In the body of the sturgeon. 
Wait until their meal is ended. 
Till their craws are full with feast- 
ing, 
Till they homeward ^y, at sunset. 
To their nests among the marshes ; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter." 

And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water. 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls. 
From their banquet rose with clamor, 
And across the iiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands, 
To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor. 
Toiling patient in the moonlight, 
Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 
.And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 

Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the rib- 
bones. 



Till the sea-gulls came no longer. 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 



IX. 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHEll. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood Nokomis, the old woman. 
Pointing Avith her finger westward, 
O'er the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his Avay along the heavens. 
Set the sky on fire behind him, 
As war-parties, when retreating, 
Burn the prairies on their war-trail ; 
And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush. 
Followed fast those bloody footprints, 
Followed in that fiery war-trail. 
With its glare upon his features. 

And Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Spake these words to Hiawatha : 
" Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents. 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents. 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 
You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 
To the purple clouds of sunset ! 
" He it was who slew my father, 
By his wicked wiles and cunning, 
When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 
He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes. 
Sends the pestilential vapors. 
Sends the poisonous exhalations, 
Sends the white fog frotn the fen-lands, 
Sends disease and death among us ! 

"Take your bow, Hiawatha, 
Take your rr^'ows, jasper-headed, 
Take your v.-ar-club, Puggawaugun, 
And your mittons, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch-cjuioe for sailing. 
And the oil of Mis'ie-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch-water ; 



160 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Slay this merciless magician, 
Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen-lands, 
And avenge my father's murder ! " 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 
^rmed himself with all his war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing ; 
With his palm its sides he patted, 
Said with glee, " Cheemaun, my darling, 
my Birch-Canoe ! leap forward, 
Where you see the fiery serpents. 
Where you see the black pitch- water ! '' 

Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting. 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and woful. 
And above him tlie war-eagle. 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Master of all fowls with feathers. 
Screamed and hurtled through the heav- 
ens. 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents. 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Lying huge upon the water, 
Sparkling, rippling in the water. 
Lying coiled across the passage, 
With their blazing crests uplifted, 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapors, 
So that none could pass beyond them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 
* * Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 
Let me go upon my journey ! " 
And they answered, hissing fiercely, 
With their fiery breath made answer : 
" Back, go back ! Shaugodaya ! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! " 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
liaised his mighty bow of ash -tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 
Shot them fast among the serpents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 
Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 
Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 
*' Onward, Cheemaun, my darling ! 
Onward to the black pitch-water ! " 

Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
And the bows and sides anointed, 
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly 
He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it, 
Sailed upon that sluggish water, 
Covered with its mould of ages, 



Black with rotting water-rushes, 
Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, 
And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, 
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, 
In their weary night-encampments. 

All the air Avas white with moonlight, 
All the water black wdth shadow. 
And around him the Suggema, 
The mosquito, sang his war-song, 
And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead him ; 
And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 
Thrust his head into the moonlight, 
Fixed his j'ellow eyes upon him. 
Sobbed and s^nk beneath the surface ; 
And anon a thousand whistles, 
Answered over all the fen-lands, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far off" on the reedy margin. 
Heralded the hero's coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 
Toward the realm of Megissogwon, 
Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, 
Till the level moon stared at him, 
In his face stared pale and haggard, 
Till the sun was hot behind him. 
Till it burned upon his shoulders, 
And before liim on the upland 
He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 
Of the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then once more Cheemaun he patted, 
To his birch-canoe said, ** Onward ! " 
And it stirred in all its fibres. 
And with one great bound of triumph 
Leaped across the water-lilies. 
Leaped through tangled flags and rushes. 
And upon the beach beyond them 
Dry-shod landed Hiawatha, 

Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, 
On the sand one end he rested, 
With his knee he pressed the middle. 
Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter. 
Took an arrow, jasper-headed. 
Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 
Sent it singing as a herald. 
As a bearer of his message. 
Of his cliallenge loud and lofty : 
' ' Come forth from your lodge. Pearl. 

Feather ! 
Hiawatha waits your coming ! " 

Straightway from the Shining Wigwam 
Came the mighty Megissogwon, 
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, 
Dark and terrible in aspect. 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 



161 



Clad from head to foot in wampum, 
Armed with all his warlike weapons, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow. 
Crested with great eagle-feathers, 
Streaming upward, streaming outward. 

"Well I know you, Hiawatha ! " 
Cried he in a voice of thunder, 
In a tone of loud derision. 
*' Hasten back, Shaugodaya ! 
Hasten back among the women, 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! 
I will slay you as you stand there, 
As of old I slew her father ! " 

But my Hiawatha answered. 
Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 
'* Big words do not smite like war-clubs. 
Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows. 
Deeds are better things than words are. 
Actions mightier than boastings ! " 

Then began the greatest battle 
That the sun had ever looked on. 
That the war-birds ever witnessed. 
All a Summer's day it lasted. 
From the sunrise to tne sunset ; 
For the shafts of Hiawatha 
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum. 
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; 
It could dash the rocks asunder. 
But it could not break the meshes 
Of that magic shirt of wampum. 

Till at sunset Hiawatha, 
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree. 
Wounded, weary, and desponding. 
With his mighty war-club broken, 
With his mittens torn and tattered. 
And three useless arrows only. 
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree. 
From whose branches trailed the mosses. 
And whose trunk was coated over 
With the Dead-man's Moccasin -leather. 
With the fungus white and yellow. 

Suddenly from the boughs above him 
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker : 
"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 
At the head of Megissogwon, 
Strike the tuft of hair upon it. 
At their roots the long black tresses ; 
There alone can he be wounded ! " 

Winged with feathers, tipped with jas- 
per. 
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, 
Just as Megissogwon, stooping, 
Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 



Full upon the crown it struck him, 
At the roots of his long tresses. 
And he reeled and staggered forward. 
Plunging like a wounded bison. 
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison. 
When the snow is on the prairie. 

Swifter flew the second arrow, 
In the pathway of the other. 
Piercing deeper than the other, 
Wounding sorer than the other , 
And the knees of Megissogwon 
Shook like windy reeds beneath him. 
Bent and trembled like the rushes. 

But the third and latest arrow 
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest. 
And the mighty ^Megissogwon 
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, 
Heard his voice call in the darkness ; 
At the feet of Hiawatha 
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 
Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then the grateful Hiawatha 
Called the Mama, the woodpecker, 
From his perch among the branches 
Of the melancholy pine-tree. 
And, in honor of his service. 
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 
On the little head of Mama ; 
Even to this day he wears it. 
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, 
Asa symbol of his service. 

Then he stripped the shirt of wampum 
From the back of Megissogwon, 
As a trophy of the battle, 
As a signal of his conquest. 
On the shore he left the body. 
Half on land and half in water. 
In the sand his feet were biiried. 
And his face was in the water. 
And above him, wheeled and clamored 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Sailing round in narrower circles, 
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 

From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All his wealth of skins and wampum, 
Furs of bison and of beaver. 
Furs of sable and of ermine. 
Wampum belts and strings and pouches, 
Quivers wrought with beads of wampum. 
Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 

Homeward then he sailed exulting, 
Homeward through the black pitch- 
water. 
Homeward through the weltering ser- 
pents, 



162 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



With the trophies of the battle, 
With a shout and song of triumph. 

On the shore stood old Nokoniis, 
On the shore stood Chibiabos, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
Waiting for the hero's coming. 
Listening to his song of triumph. 
And the people of the village 
Welcomed him with songs and dances, 
Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 
" Honor be to Hiawatha ! 
He has slain the great Pearl- Feather, 
Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 
Him, who sent the fiery fever. 
Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sent disease and death among us ! " 

Ever dear to Hiawatha 
Was the memory of Mama ! 
And in token of his friendship, 
As a mark of his remembrance, 
He adorned and decked his pipe-stem 
With the crimson tuft of feathers, 
With the blood-red crest of Mama. 
But the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All the trophies of the battle, 
He divided with his people. 
Shared it equally among them. 



X. 



HIAWATHA S WOOING. 

" As unto the bow the cord is, 

So unto the man is woman. 

Though she bends him, she obeys him. 

Though she draws him, yet she follows. 

Useless each without the other ! " 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings. 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing. 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

" Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
" Go not eastward, go not westward. 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter. 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers ! " 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 



But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight ! " 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
" Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman. 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers. 
Heart and hand that move together. 
Feet that run on willing errands ! " 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
" In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands. 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people ! " 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us. 
There are feuds yet unforgotten. 
Wounds that ache and still may open ! ' 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
' ' For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united. 
That old feuds might be forgotten. 
And old wounds be healed forever ! " 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow. 
Through interminable forests. 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him. 
And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting. 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
" Pleasant is the sound ! " he murmured, 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me ! " 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine. 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha ; 
To his bow he whispered, " Fail not ! " 
To his arrow whispered, ' ' Swerve not ! " 
Sent it singing on its errand, 
To the red heart of the roebuck ; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder. 
And «iped forward without pausing. 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 



163 



At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were. 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there, 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties. 
How they "Came to buy his arrows, 
Could not light without his arroM's. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women. 
Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter. 
From another tribe and country. 
Young and tall and very handsome. 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows. 
Sat and rested in the wigwam. 
Lingered long about the doorway. 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise Imn, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle. 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a 
footstep. 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders. 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor. 
Laid aside the unftnished arrow. 
Bade him enter at the doorway. 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
" Hiawatha, you are welcome ! " 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden. 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him. 
Looked up from her mat of rushes. 
Said with gentle look and accent, 



** You are welcome, Hiawatha ! " 

Very spacious was the wigwam. 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished. 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood. 
Listened while the guest was speaking. 
Listened while her father answered. 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician. 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

" After many years of Avarfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
" That this peace may last forever. 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united. 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudl)% 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha ! " 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant. 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him. 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 



164 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow. 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam. 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
"Fare thee well, Minnehaha ! " 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway. 
Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
** Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us ! 
Just when they have learned to help us, 
When we are old and lean upon them. 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her. 
Leaving all things for the stranger ! " 

Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain. 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly. 
Though his pace he checked and slack- 
ened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches. 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
'And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the travelling winds went with 
them, 
O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at them. 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slum- 
ber ; 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 



Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches. 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
' ' Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
" Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband ! " 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches. 
Saying to them, " my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Eule by love, Hiawatha ! " 

From the sky the moon looked at 
them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors. 
Whispered to them, " my children. 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow ; 
Rule by patience. Laughing Water ! " 
Thus it was they journeyed home- 
■v\'ard ; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, fire- 
light. 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 



XL 

Hiawatha's wedding-feast. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
How the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the sweetest of musicians. 
Sang his songs of love and longing ; 
How lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller, 
Told his tales of strange adventure. 
That the feast might be more joyous, 
Tliat the time might pass more gayly; 
And the guests be more contented. 
Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 



HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 



165 



Made at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 
All the spoons of horn of bison, 
Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow, 
As a sign of invitation. 
As a token of the feasting ; 
And the wedding guests assembled. 
Clad in all their richest raiment, 
Tiobes of fur and belts of wampum, 
Splendid with their paint and plumage. 
Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis ; 
Then on pemican they feasted, 
Pemican and buffalo marrow, 
Haunch of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 
And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them, 
Only waited on the others, 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy. 
From an ample pouch of otter. 
Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking 
With tobacco from the South-land, 
Mixed with bark of the red willow. 
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 

Then she said, " Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances, 
Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, 
That the feast may be more joyous. 
That the time may pass more gayly. 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 
He the merry mischief-maker. 
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and pastimes. 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes. 
In the play of quoits and ball-play ; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard. 
In all games of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. 

Though the warriors called him Faint- 
Heart, 
Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 
Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 



Little heeded he their jesting. 
Little cared he for their insults. 
For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doeskin. 
White and soft, and fringed with ermine, 
All inwrought with beads of wampum ; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine 
And in moccasins of buck-skin. 
Thick with quills and beads embroidered. 
On his head were plumes of swan's 

down. 
On his heels were tails of foxes, 
In one hand a fan of feathers. 
And a pipe was in the other. 

Barred with streaks of red and yellow, 
Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, 
Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From his forehead fell his tresses. 
Smooth, and parted like a woman's. 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited, 
Hung with braids of scented grasses, 
As among the guests assembled. 
To the sound of flutes and singing. 
To the sound of drums and voices, 
Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure, 
Very slow in step and gesture. 
In and out among the pine-trees, 
Through the shadows and the sunshine, 
Treading softly like a panther. 
Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
AVhirling, spinning round in circles, 
Leaping o'er the guests assembled, 
Eddying round and round the wigwam, 
Till the leaves went whirling with him, 
Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea- Water, 
On he sped with frenzied gestures. 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 
Wildly in the air around him ; 
Till the wind became a whirlwind, 
Till the sand was blown and sifted 
Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, < 
Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the ISTagow Wudjoo ! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Kee^vis 
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please 

them. 
And, returning, sat down laughing 
There among the guests assembled, 
Sa^ and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 



166 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Then they said to Chibiabos, 
To the friend of Hiawatha, 
To the sweetest of all singers, 
To the best of all nmsicians, 
"Sing to us, Chibiabos ! 
Songs of love and songs of longing. 
That the feast ma)' be more joyous. 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

And the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang in accents sweet and tender, 
Sang in tones of deep emotion, 
Songs of love and songs of longing ; 
Looking still at Hiawatha, 
Looking at fair Laughing "Water, 
Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 

"Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 
Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 
Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 
Thou Avith eyes so soft and fawn -like ! 

" If thou only lookest at me, 
I am happy, I am happy, 
As the lilies of the prairie. 
When they feel the dew upon them ! 

" Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance 
Of the wild-flowers in the morning. 
As their fragrance is at evening. 
In the Moon when leaves are falling. 

" Does not all the blood within me 
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee. 
As the springs to meet the sunshine. 
In the Moon when nights are brightest ? 

** Onaway ! my heart sings to thee. 
Sings with joy when thou art near me, 
As the sighing, singing branches 
In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries ! 

"When thou art not pleased, beloved, 
Then my heart is sad and darkened, 
As the shining river darkens 
When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 

* ' When thou smilest, my beloved. 
Then my troubled heart is brightened. 
As in sunshine gleam the ripples 
That the cold wind makes in rivers. 

"Smiles the earth, and smile the 
waters, 
Smile the cloudless skies above us. 
But I lose the way of smiling 
When thou art no longer near me ! 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! 
awake, awake, beloved ! 
Onaway ! awake, beloved ! " 

Thus the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang his song of love and longing ; 
And lagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 



He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Jealous of the sweet musician, 
Jealous of the applause they gave him, 
Saw in all the eyes around him, 
Saw in all their looks and gestures, 
That the wedding guests assembled 
Longed to hear his pleasant stories, 
His immeasurable falsehoods. 

Very boastful was lagoo ; 
Never heard he an adventure 
But himself had met a greater ; 
Never any deed of daring 
But himself had done a bolder ; 
Never any marvellous storj'- 
But himself could tell a stranger. 

Would you listen to his boasting. 
Would you only give him credence. 
No one ever shot an arrow 
Half so far and high as he had ; 
Ever caught so many fishes. 
Ever killed so many reindeer. 
Ever trapped so many beaver ! 

None could run so fast as he could, 
None could dive so deep as he could. 
None could swim so far as he could ; 
None had made so many journeys, 
None had seen so many wonders. 
As this wonderful lagoo. 
As this marvellous story-teller ! 

Thus his name became a by -word 
And a jest among the people ; 
And whene'er a boastful hunter 
Praised his own address too highly, 
Or a warrior, home returning, 
Talked too much of his achievements. 
All his hearers cried, " lagoo ! 
Here 's lagoo come among us ! " 

He it was who carved the cradle 
Of the little Hiawatha, 
Carved its framework out of linden. 
Bound it strong with reindeer sinews ; 
He it was Avho taught him later 
How to make his bows and arrows, 
How to make the bows of ash-tree. 
And the arrows of the oak-tree. 
So among the guests assembled 
At my Hiawatha's wedding 
Sat lagoo, old and ugly. 
Sat the marvellous story-teller. 

And they said, "0 good lagoo, 
Tell us now a tale of wonder. 
Tell us of some strange adventure. 
That the feast may be more joyous. 
That the time may pass more gayly,^ 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

And lagoo answered straightway, 
** You shall hear a tale of wonder, 



THE SON OF -fHE EVENING STAK. 



167 



You shall hear the strange adventures 

Of Osseo, the Magician, 

From the Evening Star descended." 



XIl. 

THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 

Can it be the sun descending 
O'er the level plain of water ? 
Or the Red Swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow, 
Staining all the waves with crimson. 
With the crimson of its life-blood. 
Filling all the air with splendor, 
With the splendor of its plumage ? 

Yes ; it is the sun descending, 
Sinking down into the water ; 
All the sky is stained with purple. 
All the water flushed with crimson ! 
No ; it is the Red Swan floating, 
Diving down beneath the water ; 
To the sky its wings are lifted. 
With its blood the waves are reddened ! 

Over it the Star of Evening 
Melts and trembles through the purple, 
Hangs suspended in the twilight. 
No ; it is a bead of wampum 
On the robes of the Great Spirit, 
As he passes through the twilight, 
Walks in silence through the heavens. 

This with joy beheld lagoo 
And he said in haste : " Behold it ! 
See the sacred Star of Evening ! 
You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
Hear the story of Osseo, 
Son of the Evening Star, Osseo ! 

"Once, in days no more remembered. 
Ages nearer the beginning. 
When the heavens were closer to us. 
And the Gods were more familiar. 
In the North-land lived a hunter. 
With ten young and comely daugh- 
ters. 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow ; 
Only Ovveenee, the youngest, 
She the wilful and the wayward. 
She the silent, dreamy maiden, 
Was the fairest of the sisters. 

" All these women married warriors, 
Married brave and haughty husbands ; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest. 
Laughed and flouted all her lovers, 
All her young and handsome suitors, 
And then married old Osseo, 
Old Osseo, poor and ugly, 



Broken with age and weak with cough- 
ing, 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 

* ' Ah, but beautiful within him 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 
From the Evening Star descended. 
Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 
Star of tenderness and passion ! 
All its fire was in his bosom. 
All its beauty in his spirit, 
All its mystery in his being. 
All its splendor in his language ! 

"And her lovers, the rejected, 
Handsome men with belts of wampum, 
Handsome men with paint and feathers, 
Pointed at her in derision. 
Followed her with jest and laughter. 
But she said : * I care not for you. 
Care not for your belts of wampum, 
Care not for your paint and feathers. 
Care not for your jestB and laughter ; 
I am happy with Osseo ! ' 

" Once to some great feast invited. 
Through the damp and dusk of evening 
Walked together the ten sisters. 
Walked together with their husbands ; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 
With fair Oweenee beside him ; 
All the others chatted gayly. 
These two only walked in silence. 

' ' At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 
Often stopped and gazed imploring 
At the trembling Star of Evening, 
At the tender Star of Woman ; 
And they heard him murmur softly, 
'Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa! 
Pity, pity me, my father ! ' 

' ' ' Listen ! ' said the eldest sister, 
' He is praying to his father ! 
What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway. 
Does not break his neck by falling ! ' 
And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

* ' On their pathway through the wood- 
lands 
Iiay an oak, by storms uprooted, 
Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 
Buried half in leaves and mosses. 
Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hol- 
low. 
And Osseo, when he saw it, 
Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, 
Leaped into its yawning cavern, 
At one end went in an old man, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 



168 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



From the other came a young man, 
Tall and straight and strong and hand- 
some, 

" Thus Osseo was transfigured, 
Thus restored to youth and beauty ; 
But, alas for good Osseo, 
And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 
Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman, 
With a stafi" she tottered onward, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 
And the sisters and their husbands 
Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 

" But Osseo turned not from her, 
Walked with slower step beside her, 
Took her hand, as brown and withered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 
Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kindness, 
Till they reached the lodge of feasting. 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 

' ' Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, 
At the banquet sat Osseo ; 
All were merry, all were happy. 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen. 
But as one bewildered sat he. 
Looking dreamily and sadly. 
First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 

" Then a voice was heard, a whisper. 
Coming from the starry distance, 
Coming from the empty vastness. 
Low, and musical, and tender ; 
And the voice said : ' Osseo ! 
my son, my best beloved ! 
Broken are the si)ells that bound you, 
All the charms of the magicians. 
All the magic powers of evil ; 
Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

" 'Taste the food that stands before 
you : 
It is blessed and enchanted. 
It has magic virtues in it. 
It will change you to a spirit. 
All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be wood and clay no longer ; 
But the bowls be changed to wampum. 
And the kettles shall be silver ; 
They shall shine like shells of scarlet. 
Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. 

** ' And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labor, 



But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight. 
Painted with the dusky splendors 
Of the skies and clouds of evening ! ' 

"What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words he comprehended, 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off. 
Of the whippoorwill afar oflf. 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

" Then the lodge began to tremble 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 
And they felt it rising, rising, 
Slowly through the air ascending. 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 
Till it passed the topmost branches ; 
And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver .' 
And the roof-poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver. 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

' ' Then Osseo gazed around him. 
And he saw the nine fair sisters. 
All the sisters and their husbands. 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were mag- 
pies. 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; 
And they hopped, and sang, and twit- 
tered, 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 
Strutted in their shining plumage. 
And their tails like fans unfolded. 

"Only Oweenee, the youngest. 
Was not changed, but sat in silence. 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, 
Looking sadly at the others ; 
Till Osseo, gazing upward. 
Gave another cry of anguish, 
Such a cry as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

"Then returned her youth and beau 1 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine. 
And her staff became a feather, 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 

" And again the wigwam trembled. 
Swayed and rushed through airy currents, 
Through transparent cloud and vapor. 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted. 
As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake. 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 



169 



As a leaf drops on a river, 
As the thistle-down on water. 

' ' Forth with cheerful words of wel- 
come 
Came the father of Osseo, 
He with radiant locks of silver, 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said : ' My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver, 
And the birds with glistening feathers. 
At the doorway of my wigwam. ' 

" At the door he hung the bird-cage. 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo' s father. 
Ruler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said : ' my Osseo ! 
I have had compassion on you. 
Given you back your youth and beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their husbands; 
Changed them thus because they mocked 

you 
In the figure of the old man, 
In that aspect sad and wrinkled. 
Could not see your heart of passion. 
Could not see your youth immortal ; 
Only Oweenee, the faithful, 
Saw your naked heart and loved you. 

"'In the lodge thai glimmers yon- 
der, 
In the little star that twinkles 
Through the vapors, on the left hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 
The Wabeno, the magician, 
"Who transformed you to an old man. 
Take heed lest his beams fall on you, 
For the rays he darts around him 
Are the power of his enchantment. 
Are the arrows that he uses.' 

"Many years, in peace and quiet. 
On the peaceful Star of Evening 
Dwelt Osseo with his father ; 
Many years, in song and flutter. 
At the doorway of the wigwam. 
Hung the cage with rods of silver, 
And fair Oweenee, the faithful. 
Bore a son unto Osseo, 
With the beauty of his mother, 
With the courage of his father. 

" And the boy grew up and prospered, 
And Osseo, to delight him, 
Made him little bows and arrows. 
Opened the great cage of silver, 
And let loose his aunts and uncleS; 
All those birds with glossy feathers, 
For his little son to shoot at. 



" Round and round they wheeled and 
darted. 
Filled the Evening Star with music, 
With their son-gs of joy and freedom ; 
Filled the Evening Star with splendor, 
With the fluttering of their plumage ; 
Till the boy, the little hunter. 
Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 
Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 
And a bird, with shining feathers. 
At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

' • But, wondrous transformation ! 
'T was no bird he saw before him, 
'T was a beautiful young woman, 
With the arrow in her bosom ! 

" When her blood fell on the planet, 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 
Broken was the spell of magic. 
Powerless was the strange enchantment, 
And the youth, the fearless bowman 
Suddenly felt himself descending, 
Held by unseen hands, but sinking 
Downward through the empty spaces, 
Downward through the clouds and va- 
pors. 
Till he rested on an island. 
On an island, green and grassy, 
Yonder in the Big-Sea- Water. 

" After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward. 
Like the painted leaves of Autumn ; 
And the lodge with poles of silver, 
AVith its roof like wings of beetles. 
Like the shining shards of beetles, 
By the winds of heaven uplifted, 
Slowly sank upon the island. 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

" Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals. 
Took their shape, but not their stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies, 
And on pleasant niglits of Summer, 
When the Evening Star was shining. 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island's craggy headlands. 
On the sand-beach low and level. 

"Still their glittering lodge is seen 
there. 
On the tranquil Summer evenings, 
And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices. 
Sees them dancing in the starlight ! " 

AVhen the story was completed, 
"\nien the wondrous tale was ended. 



170 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Looking round upon his listeners, 

Solemnly lagoo added : 

"There are great men, I have known 

such, 
Whom their people understand not, 
Whom they even make a jest of, 
Scoff and jeer at in derision. 
From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters ! " 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story. 
Listened laughing and applauding. 
And they whispered to each other : 
*' Does Ije mean himself, I wonder ? 
And are we the aunts and uncles ? " 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and tender, 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 
Sang a maiden's lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 

" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

' * Ah me ! when I parted from him, 
Round my neck he hung the wampum. 
As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

'* I will go with you, he whispered, 
Ah me ! to your native country ; 
Let me go Avith you, he whispered, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

"Far away, away, I answered, 
Very far away, I answered. 
Ah me ! is my native country, 
Omy sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

"When I looked back to behold him. 
Where we parted, to behold him, 
After me he still was gazing, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" By the tree he still was standing. 
By the fallen tree was standing, 
That had dropped into the water, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

' ' When I think of my beloved. 
Ah me ! think of my beloved. 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! " 

Such was Hiawatha's Wedding, 
Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such the story of lagoo. 
Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 
Thus the wedding banquet ended. 
And the wedding guests departed. 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 



XIII. 

BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. 

Sing, Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet. 
Buried was the dreadful war-club, 
Buried were all warlike weapons^ 
And the war-cry was forgotten. 
There was peace among the nations ; 
Unmolested roved the hunters. 
Built the birch canoe for sailing, 
Caught the fish in lake and river, 
Shot the deer and trapped the bearer ; 
Unmolested worked the women, 
Made their sugar from the maple, 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows, 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shin. 

ing, 
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 
Filling all the land with plenty. 
'T was the women who in Spring- 
time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, 
Buried in the earth Mondamin ; 
'T was the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest. 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize was planted, 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 
Spake and said to Minnehaha, 
To his wife, the Laughing Water : 
" You shall bless to-night the cornfields, 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
To protect them from destruction. 
Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! 

' ' In the night, Avhen all is silence. 
In the night, when all is darkness, 
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams. 
So that not an ear can hear you. 
So that not an eye can see you. 
Rise up from your bed in silence. 
Lay aside your gamients wholly, 
Walk around the fields you planted. 
Round the borders of the cornfields. 



BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. 



171 



Covered by your tresses only, 
Robed with darkness as a garment. 

"Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, 
And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
So that neither blight nor mildew, 
'N'either burrowing worm nor insect, 
Shall pass o'er the magic circle ; 
Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 
Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor the mighty caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, 
King of all the caterpillars ! " 

On the tree-tops near the cornfields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
With his band of black marauders. 
And they laughed at Hiawatha, 
Till the tree-tops shook with laughter. 
With their melancholy laughter. 
At the words of Hiawatha. 
* ' Hear him ! " said they ; ' ' hear the Wise 

Man, 
Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! " 

When the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o'er field and forest, 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 
And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 
From her bed rose Laughing Water, 
Laid aside her garments wholly, 
And with darkness clothed and guarded, 
Unashamed and unafFrighted, 
Walked securely round the cornfields. 
Drew the sacred, magic circle 
Of her footprints round the cornfields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness. 
No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in liis sacred mantle. 
So that none might see her beauty, 
So that none might boast, " I saw her ! " 

On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders. 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, 
And descended, fast and fearless, 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Mondamin. 

" We will drag Mondamin," said they, 
" From the grave where he is buried, 
Spite of all the magic circles 



Laughing Water draws around it, 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! " 

But the wary Hiawatha, 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 
Had o'erheard the scornful laughter 
When they mocked him from the trecv 

tops. 
" Kaw ! " he said, " my friends the m 

vens ! 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 
I Avill teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! " 

He had risen before the daybreak, 
He had spread o'er all the cornfields 
Snares to catch the black marauders, 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, 
Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 

Soon they came with caw and clamor, 
Rush of wings and cry of voices, 
To their work of devastation. 
Settling down upon the cornfields. 
Delving deep with beak and talon, 
For the body of Mondamin. 
And with all their craft and cunning. 
All their skill in wiles of warfare, 
They perceived no danger near them. 
Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he, 
Striding terrible among them, 
And so awful was his aspect 
That the bravest quailed with terror. 
Without mercy he destroyed them 
Right and left, by tens and twenties. 
And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated cornfields. 
As a signal of his vengeance, 
As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 
With his prisoner - string he bound 

him. 
Led him captive to his wigwam. 
Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark 
To the ridge-pole of liis wigwam. 

" Kahgahgee, my raven ! " said he, 
" You the leader of the robbers, 
You the plotter of this mischief. 
The contriver of this outrage, 
I will keep you, I will hold you, 



172 



THE SONG OF HIAAVATHA. 



As a hostage for your people, 
As a pledge of good behavior ! " 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam, 
Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions. 
Vainly struggling for his freedom, 
Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasee 
Kreathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, 
From the South-land sent his ardors. 
Wafted kisses warm and tender ; 
And the maize-field grew and ripened, 
Till it stood in all the splendor 
Of its garments green and yellow, 
Of its tassels and its plumage. 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursUng sheaths of ver- 
dure. 

Then Nokomis, the old woman. 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha : 
" 'T is the Moon when leaves are falling ; 
All the wild-rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready ; 
Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his illumes and tassels. 
Of his garments green and yellow ! " 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam. 
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled. 
And they called the women round them. 
Called the young men and the maidens, 
To the harvest of the cornfields. 
To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 
Underneath the fragrant jiine-trees, 
Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence i 

Looked they at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the wom^n ; \ 

Listened to their noisy talking, j 

To their laughter and their singing, < 

Heard them chattering like the magpies, 
Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, 
Heard them singing like the robins. 

And whene'er some lucky maiden 
Found a red ear in the husking. 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
" Nushka ! " cried they all together, 
" Nushka ! you shall have a sweetheart, 
You shall have a handsome husband ! " 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded 
From their seats beneath the ])ine-trees, 

And whene'er a youth or maiden 



Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, 
Then they laughed and sang together, 
Crept and limped about the cornfields, 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double. 
Singing singly or together : 
" Wagemin, the thief of cornfields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! " 
Till the cornfields rang with laughter, 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger. 
And from all the neighboring tree-tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded. 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees ! 



XIV, 

PICTURE-WRITING, 

Ik those days said Hiawatha, 

" Lo ! how all things fade and perish ! 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions. 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visions 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

" Great men die and are forgotten. 
Wise men speak ; their woi'ds of wis- 
dom 
Perish in the ears that hear them. 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
Jn the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be ! 

" On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 
Who are in those graves we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred, 
From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not. 
Only know they are our fathers, 

" Face to face we speak together, 
But we cannot speak when absent. 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off ; 
Cannot send a secret message, 
But the bearer learns our secret, 



PICTURE-WRITING. 



173 



May pervert it, may betray it, 
May reveal it unto others." 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest, 
Pondering, musing in the forest, 
On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he took his colors, 
Took his paints of different colors, 
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures. 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 
And each figure had a meaning. 
Each some word or thought suggested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 
AVas the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 
As a serpent was depicted, 
As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 
Very crafty, very cunning. 
Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and Death he drew as circles. 
Life was white, but Death was darkened ; 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and reptile. 
Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. 

For the earth he drew a straight line. 
For the sky a bow above it ; 
White the space between for daytime. 
Filled with little stars for night-time ; 
On the left a point for sunrise. 
On the right a point for sunset. 
On the top a point for noontide. 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 

Footprints pointing towards a wigwam 
Were a sign of invitation, 
Were a sign of guests assembling ; 
Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 

All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people. 
And interpreted their meaning. 
And he said : " Behold, your grave-posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 
Go and paint them all with figures ; 
Each one with its household symbol. 
With its own ancestral Totem ; 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know them." 

And they painted on tne grave-posts 



On the graves yet unforgotten. 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 
Each the symbol of his household ; 
Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed. 
That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate symbol, 
Figures mystical and awful. 
Figures strange and brightly colored ; 
And each figure had its meaning. 
Each some magic song suggested. 

The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Flashing light through all the heaven ; 
The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 
With his bloody crest erected. 
Creeping, looking into heaven ; 
In the sky the sun, that listens. 
And the moon eclipsed and dying ) 
Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk. 
And the cormorant, bird of magic ; 
Headless men, that walk the heavens. 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows, 
Bloody hands of death uplifted. 
Flags on graves, and great war- captains 
Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 

Such as these the shapes they painted 
On the birch-bark and the deer-skin ; 
Songs of war and songs of hunting. 
Songs of medicine and of magic. 
All were written in these figures, 
For each figure had its meaning. 
Each its separate song recorded. 

Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 
The most subtle of all medicines. 
The most potent spell of magic. 
Dangerous more than war or hunting ) 
Thus the Love-Song was recorded. 
Symbol and interpretation. 

First a human figure standing. 
Painted in the brightest scarlet ; 
'T is the lover, the musician. 
And the meaning is, " My painting 
Makes me powerful over others." 

Then the figure seated, singing. 
Playing on a drum of magic. 
And the interpretation, " Listen ! 
'T is my voice you hear, my singing ! " 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam. 



174 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



And the meaning of the symbol, 

I will come and sit beside you 
in the mystery of niy passion !" 

Then two iigures, man and woman, 
Standing hand in hand together 
With their hands so clasped together 
That they seem in one united. 
And the words thus represented 
Are, "I see your heart within you, 
And your cheeks are red with blushes ! " 

Next the maiden on an island. 
In the centre of an island ; 
And the song this shape suggested 
Was, ' ' Though you were at a distance. 
Were upon some far-off island, 
Such the spell I cast upon you. 
Such the magic power of passion, 
I could straightway draw you to me ! " 

Then the figure of the maiden 
Sleeping, and the lover near her, 
Whispering to her in her slumbers, 
Saying, " Though you were far from me 
In the land of Sleep and Silence, 
Still the voice of love would reach you ! " 

And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 
Drawn M'ithin a magic circle ; 
And the image had this meaning : 
*' Naked lies your heart before me. 
To your naked heart 1 Avhisper ! " 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 
In his Avisdom, taught the people 
All the mysteries of painting. 
All the art of Picture-AVriting, 
On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 
On the white skin of the reindeer, 
On the grave-posts of the village. 



XV.' 

Hiawatha's lamentation. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 
All the Manitos of mischief, 
Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, 
And his love for Chibiabos, 
Jealous of their faithful friendship, 
And their noble words and actions, 
Made at length a league against them, 
To molest them and destroy them. 

Hiawatha, wise and wary. 
Often said to Chibiabos, 
" my brother ! do not leave me. 
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! " 
Chibiabos. young and heedless, 
Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 



Answered ever sweet and childlike, 
" Do not fear for me, brother ! 
Harm and evil come not near me ! " 

Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, 
When the snow-flakes, whirling down 

ward. 
Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, 
Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, 
Covered all the earth Avith silence, — 
Armed with arrows, shod Avich suoav- 

shoes. 
Heeding not his brother's warning, 
Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 
Forth to hunt the deer Avitli antlers 
All alone Avent Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang Avitli speed the deer before him. 
With the Avind and snoAv he followed. 
O'er the treacherous ice he folloAved, 
Wild AA'ith all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 

But beneath, the E\'il Spirits 
Lay in ambush, Avaiting for him, 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, 
Dragged him doAvuAvard to the bottom. 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water, 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 
DroAvned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Guraee. 

From the headlands HiaAvatha 
Sent forth such a Avail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation, 
That the bison paused to listen, 
And the Avolves hoAA'led from the prairies, 
And the thunder in the distance 
Starting ansAvered " Baim-AvaAA-a ! " 

Then his face Avith black he painted, 
With his robe his head he covered. 
In his AvigAvam sat lamenting, 
Seven long Aveeks he sat lamenting, 
Uttering still this moan of sorroAV : — 

"He is dead, the SAA'eet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 
He has gone from us forever. 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music. 
To the Master of all singing ! 
my brother, Chibiabos ! " 

And tlie melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark gi'een fans above 

him. 
Waved their purple cones above him. 
Sighing Avith him to console him. 
Mingling Avith his lamentatioj\ 
Their compl«ining, their lamenting. 



HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 



175 



Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; 
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 
' From the tree-tops sang the blue- 
bird, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
''Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! "_ 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer ! " 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
* ' Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! " 

Then the medicine-men, the Medas, 
The magicians, the Wabcnos, 
And the Jossakeeds, the prophets. 
Came to visit Hiawatha ; 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him. 
To appease him, to console him. 
Walked in silent, grave i)rocession. 
Bearing each a pouch of healing. 
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter. 
Filled with magic roots and simples. 
Filled Avith very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps approach- 
ing, 
Hiawatha ceased lamenting, 
Called no more on Chibiabos ; 
Naught he questioned, naught he an- 
swered, 
But his mournful head uncovered. 
From his face the mourning colors 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 
Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigv/am. 

There a magic drink they gave him. 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint. 
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, 
Koots of power, and herbs of healing ; 
Beat their drums, and shook their rat- 
tles ; 
Chanted singly and in chorus, 
Mystic songs j^ke these, they chanted. 

" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 
'T is the great Gray Eagle talking ; 
Come, ye white crows, come and hear 

him ! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 
All the unseen spirits help me ; 
I can hear their voices calling. 
All around the sky I hear them ! 



I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

' ' Friends of mine are all the serpents ! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him ; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus. 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

' ' I myself, myself ! the prophet ! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles, 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 
Wlien I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
Rise and speak, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
"Way-ha-way !" the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine- 
pouches 
O'er the head of Hiawatha, 
Danced their medicine-dance around 

him ; 
And upstarting wild and haggard. 
Like a man from dreams awakened, 
He was healed of all his madness. 
As the clouds are swept from heaven, 
Straightway from his brain departed 
All his moody melancholy ; 
As the ice is swept from rivers, 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 
From the sands of Gitche Gumee 
Summoned Hiawatha's brother. 
And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation. 
That he heard it as he lay there 
Underneath the Big-Sea- Water ; 
From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing. 
Came, obedient to the summons, 
To the doorway of the wigwam. 
But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave him. 
Through the door a burning iire-brand ; 
Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 
Ruler o'er the dead, they made liim. 
Telling him a fire to kindle 
For all those that died thereafter. 
Camp-fires for their night encampments 
On their solitary journey 



176 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his childhood, 
From the homes of those who knew him, 
Passing silent through the forest, 
Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 
Slowly vanished Chibiabos ! 
Where he passed, the branches moved 

not. 
Where he trod, the grasses bent not. 
And the fallen leaves of last year 
Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 

Four whole days he journeyed onward 
Down the pathway of the dead men ; 
On the dead-man's strawberry feasted. 
Crossed the melancholy river. 
On the swinging log he crossed it, 
Came unto the Lake of Silver, 
In the Stone Canoe was carried 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the land of ghosts and shadows. 

On that journey, moving sloAvly, 
Many weary spirits saw he. 
Panting under heavy burdens, 
Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, 
Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, 
And with food that friends had given 
For that solitary journey. 

'* Ay ! why do the living," said thej^, 
" Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 
Better were it to go naked. 
Better were it to go fasting. 
Than to bear such heavy burdens 
On our long and weary journey ! " 

Forth then issued Hiaw^atha, 
Wandered eastward, wandered westward, 
Teaching men the use of simples 
And the antidotes for poisons, 
And the cure of all diseases. 
Thus was first made knowm to mortals 
All the mystery of Medamin, 
All the sacred art of healing. 



XVI. 

PATJ-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Vov shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis 
He, the handsome Yenadizze, 
Whom the people called the Storm Fool, 
Vexed the village Avith disturbance ; 
You shall hear of all his mischief, 
And his flight from Hiawatha, 
And his wondrous transmigrations, 
And the end of his adventures. 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 



On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands together, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
When, among the guests assembled. 
He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, 
Danced the Beggar's Dance to pleas** 
them. 

ISTow, in search of new adventures, 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came with speed into the village, 
Found the young men all assembled 
In the lodge of old lagoo, 
Listening to his monstrous stories. 
To his wonderful adventures. 

He M'as telling them the story 
Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 
How he made a hole in heaven, 
How he climbed up into heaven, 
And let out the summer-weather, 
The perjjetual, pleasant Summer ; 
How the Otter first essayed it ; 
How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger 
Tried in turn the great achievement. 
From the summit of the mountain 
Smote their fists against the heavens. 
Smote against the sky their foreheads. 
Cracked the sky, but could not break i' ; 
How the Wolverine, uprising. 
Made him ready for the encounter, 
Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, 
Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 

"Once he leaped," said old lagoo, 
"Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 
AVhen the waters rise beneath it ; 
Twice he leaped, and lo ! above him 
Cracked the skj^, as ice in rivers 
When the freshet is at highest ! 
Thrice he leaped, and lo ! above hin> 
Broke the shattered sky asunder. 
And he disappeared within it, 
And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 
AVith a bound Avent in behind him ! " 

" Hark you ! " shouted Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 
As he entered at the doorway ; 
"I am tired of all this talking, 
Tired of old lagoo's stories. 
Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. 
Here is something to amuse you, 
Better than this endless talking." 

Then from out his pouch of wolf-skiu 
Forth he drew, with solemn manner. 



PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 



177 



All the game of Bowl and Counters, 
Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 
White on one side were they painted, 
And vermilion on the other ; 
Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, 
Two Ininewug or wedge-men. 
One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 
And one slender hsh, the Keego, 
Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 
And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 
All were made of bone and painted, 
All except the Ozawabeeks ; 
These were brass, on one side burnished. 
And were black upon the other. 

In a wooden bowl he placed them, 
Shook and jostled them together. 
Threw them on the ground before him. 
Thus exclaiming and explaining : 
" Red side up are all the pieces. 
And one great Kenabeek standing 
On the bright side of a brass piece, 
On a burnished Ozawabeek ; 
Thirteen tens and eight are counted." 

Then again he shook the pieces, 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before him, 
Still exclaiming and explaining : 
** White are both the great Kenabeeks, 
White the Ininewug, the wedge-men. 
Red are a,ll the other pieces ; 
Five tens and an eight are counted." 

Thus he taught the game of hazard. 
Thus displayed it and explained it. 
Running through its various chances. 
Various changes, various meanings : 
Twenty curious eyes stared at him. 
Full of eagerness stared at him. 

" Many games," said old lagoo, 
" Many games of skill and hazard 
Have I seen in different nations. 
Have I played in different countries. 
He who plays with old lagoo 
Must have very nimble fingers ; 
Though you think yourself so skilful 
I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
I can even give you lessons 
In your game of Bowl and Counters ! " 

So they sat and played together. 
All the old men and the young men. 
Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, 
Played till midnight, played till morn- 
ing, 
Played until the Yenadizze, 
Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of their treasures had despoiled them, 
Of the best of all their dresses. 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes cf ermine, 
12 



Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, 
Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. 
Twenty eyes glared wildly at him. 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 

Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
"In my wigwam I am lonely, 
In my wanderings and adventures 
I have need of a companion, 
Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 
An attendant and pipe-bearer, 
1 will venture all these winnings. 
All these garments heaped about me. 
All this wampum, all these feathers, 
On a single throw will venture 
All against the young man yonder ! " 
'T was a youth of sixteen summers, 
'T was a nephew of lagoo ; 
Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes, 
So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old lagoo. 
" Ugh ! " he answered very fiercely ; 
" Ugh ! " they answered all and each 
one. 

Seized the wooden bowl the old man. 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury. 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he tlirew them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 
Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego ; 
Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces ; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them, 
And they fell about him scattered ; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 
Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing. 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players. 
Saying, " Five tens ! mine the game is I ' 

Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 
As he turned and left the wigwam. 
Followed by his Meshinauwa, 
By the nephew of lagoo. 
By the tall and graceful stripling. 
Bearing in his arms the winnings. 
Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ennine. 
Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. 



178 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Carry them, " said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers, 
"To my wigwam far to eastward. 
On tlie dunes of Nagow Wudjoo ! " 

Hot and red with smoke and gambling 
Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant Summer morning. 
All the birds were singing gayly. 
All the streamlets flowing swiftly. 
And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 
Beat with triumph like the streamlets. 
As he wandered through the village. 
In the early gray of morning. 
With his fan of turkey-feathers, 
With his plumes and tufts of swan's 

down, 
Till he reached the farthest W'igwani, 
Eeached the lodge of Hiawatha. 

Silent was it and deserted ; 
No one met him at the doorway. 
No one came to bid him welcome ; 
But the birds were singing round it, 
In and out and round the doorway. 
Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding. 
And aloft upon the ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming. 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewds. 

"AH are gone ! the lodge is empty ! " 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-KeeAvis, 
In his heart resolving mischief ; — 
" Gone is wary Hiawatha, 
Gone the silly Laughing Water, 
Gone Nokomis, the old woman. 
And the lodge is left unguarded ! " 

By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rattle. 
Like a medicine-]wuch he shook it. 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven. 
From the ridge-pole of the wigwam 
Left its lifeless hodj hanging, 
As an insult to its master. 
As a taunt to Hiawatha. 

With a stealthy step he entered. 
Round the lodge in wild disoi-der 
Threw the household things about him. 
Piled together in confusion 
Bowds of wood and earthen kettles, 
Robes of bufl'alo and beaver. 
Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 
As an insult to Nokomis, 
^s a taunt to Minnehaha. 

Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling, singing through the forest, 
Whistling gayly to the squirrels, 



Who from hollow boughs above him 
Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, 
Singing gayly to the w-ood birds. 
Who from out the leafy darkness 
Answered with a song as merry. 

Then he climbed the rocky headlands, 
Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, 
Perched himself upon their sunmiit. 
Waiting full of mirth and mischief 
The return of Hiawatha. 

Stretched upon his back he lay there ; 
Far below him plashed the waters. 
Plashed and washed the dreamy waters •, 
Far above him swam the lieavens. 
Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens ; 
Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 
Hiawatha's mountain chickens, 
Flock-w ise swept and Avheeled about him, 
Almost brushed him with their pinions. 

And he killed them as he lay there, 
Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, 
Threw their bodies down the headland, 
Threw them on the beach below him. 
Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 
Perched upon a crag above them. 
Shouted : " It is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
He is slaying us by hundreds ! 
Send a message to our brother, 
Tidings send to Hiawatha ! " 



XVII. 

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Full of wrath was Hiawatha 
When he came into the village, 
Found the people in confusion. 
Heard of all the misdemeanors, 
All the malice and the mischief. 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his Ijreath came through his 
nostrils. 
Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered 
Words of anger and resentment. 
Hot and humming, like a hornet. 
" I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Slay this mischief-maker ! " said he. 
" Not so long and Avide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is. 
That my wrath shall not attain him. 
That my vengeance shall not reach him ! " 

Then in swdft pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through the forest, where he passed it, 
To the headlands where he rested : 



THE HUNTING OF" PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 



179 



But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Only in the trampled grasses, 

In the whortleberry-bushes, 

Found the couch where he had rested, 

Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath them, 
From the Muskoday, the meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 
Made a gesture of defiance. 
Made a gesture of derision ; 
And aloud cried Hiawatha, 
From the summit of the mountain : 
' ' Not so long and wide the world is, 
Not so rude and rough the way is. 
But my wrath shall overtake you. 
And my vengeance shall attain you ! " 

Over rock and over river. 
Thorough bush, and brake, and forest, 
Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Like an antelope he bounded. 
Till he came unto a streamlet 
In the middle of the forest. 
To a streamlet still and tranquil. 
That had overflowed its margin, 
To a dam made by the beavers. 
To a pond of quiet water. 
Where knee-deep the trees were standing, 
Where the water-lilies floated, 
Where the rushes waved and whispered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On the dam of trunks and branches. 
Through whose chinks the water spouted. 
O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. 
From the bottom rose the beaver, 
Looked with two great eyes of wonder. 
Eyes that seemed to ask a question. 
At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet. 
Flowed the bright and silvery water. 
And he spake unto the beaver, 
With a smile he spake in this wise : 

" my friend Ahmeek, the beaver. 
Cool and pleasant is the water ; 
Let me dive into the water. 
Let me rest there in your lodges ; 
Change me, too, into a beaver ! " 

Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made answer : 
" Let me flrst consult the others. 
Let me ask the other beavers." 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 
Down among the leaves and branches, 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet. 



Spouted through the chinks below him 
Dashed upon the stones beneath him, 
Spread serene and calm before him. 
And the sunshine and the shadows 
Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, 
Fell in little shining patches. 
Through the waving, rustling branches. 

From the bottom rose the beavers. 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another, 
Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 

To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake entreating, said in this wise : 
" Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
my friends ! and safe from danger ; 
Can you not with ail your cunning. 
All your wisdom and contrivance. 
Change me, too, into a beaver ? " 

"Yes !" replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 
' ' Let yourself slide down among us, 
Down into the tranquil water." 

Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 
Black his moccasins and leggings, 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes ; 
He was changed into a beaver. 

"Make me large," said Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 
' ' Make me large and make me larger. 
Larger than the other beavers." 
" Yes," the beaver chief responded, 
" When our lodge below you enter, 
In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others." 

Thus into tlie clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the Avinter, 
Piles and heaps against the famine ; 
Found the lodge with arching door 

way, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers, 
Ten times larger than the others. 
" You shall be our ruler," said they ; 
" Chief and King of all the beavers." 

But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers. 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies, 



180 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Saying, " Here is Hiawatha .' 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! " 

Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping. 
Heard a crashing and a rushing. 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies. 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the 

crevice, 
Sprang the beavers through the doorway. 
Hid themselves in deeper water. 
In the channel of the streamlet ; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 
He was puffed with pride and feeding. 
He was swollen like a bladder. 

Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 
Cried aloud, " Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 
Vain are all your craft and cunning, 
Vain your manifold disguises ! 
Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 

With their clubs the}-- beat and bruised 
him. 
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Kee^^^s, 
Pounded him as maize is pounded. 
Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 

Six tall hunters, lithe and limber. 
Bore him home on poles and branches. 
Bore the body of the beaver ; 
But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

And it fluttered, strove, and struggled. 
Waving hither, waving thither. 
As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin. 
When tlie wintry wind is blowing ; 
Till it drew itself together, 
Till it rose up from the body. 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing into the forest. 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished, 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 
Of the pine-trees of the forest ; 
Toward the squares of white beyond it, 
Toward an opening in the forest. 
Like a wind it rushed and panted, 
Bending all the boughs before it, 
And behind it, as the rain comes. 
Came the steps of Pliawatha, 

To a lake with many islands 



Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where among the water-lilies 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 
Through the tufts of rushes floating, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the water. 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 
Now they brightened in the sunshine, 

"Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
" Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! " said he, 
" Change me to a brant with plumage. 
With a shining neck and feathers. 
Make me large, and make me larger, 
Ten times larger than the others," 

Straightway to a brant they changed 
him. 
With two huge and dusky pinions, 
With a bosom smooth and rounded, 
With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest, 
Just as, shouting from the forest. 
On the shore stood Hiawatha, 

Up they rose with cry and clamor. 
With a whir and beat of pinions. 
Rose up from the reedy islands. 
From the water-flags and lilies. 
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
" In your flying, look not downward. 
Take good heed, and look not downward, 
Lest some strange mischance should hap- 
pen. 
Lest some great mishap befall you ! " 

Fast and far they fled to northward. 
Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 
Fed among the moors and fen-lands, 
Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they journeyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 
Rose a clamor from beneath them. 
From the lodges of a village. 
From the people miles beneath them. 

For the people of the village 
Saw the flock of brant with wonder,- 
Saw the Avings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flap})ing far up in the ether, 
Broader than tAvo doorway curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 
Knew the outcry of lagoo. 
And, forgetful of the warning. 
Drew his neok in, and looked downward. 
And the wind that blew behind him 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 



181 



Oaught his mighty fan of feathers, 
Sent him wheeling, whirling downward ! 

All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance ! 
Whirling round and round and down- 
ward. 
He beheld in turn the village 
And in turn the flock above him, 
5aw the village coming nearer. 
And the flock receding farther, 
Heard the voices growing louder. 
Heard the shouting and the laughter ; 
Saw no more the flock above him. 
Only saw the earth beneath him ; 
Dead out of the empty heaven. 
Dead among the shouting people, 
With a heavy sound and sullen. 
Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow. 
Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 
And again went rushing onward. 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying : ' ' Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is. 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
But my vengeance shall attain you ! " 

And so near he came, so near him, 
That his hand was stretched to seize him, 
His right hand to seize and hold him, 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind, 
Danced the dust and leaves about him, 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree. 
Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree. 
Rent it into shreds and splinters. 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
.Once again in human figure, 
•Full in sight ran on before him. 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind. 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea- Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands. 
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone. 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 
Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 



In his caverns dark and dreary, 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against him, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone. 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
" Open ! I am Hiawatha ! " 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 
And they came with night and darkness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea- Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning. 
Smote the doorways of the caverns. 
With his war-club smote the doorways, 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns, 
Saying, " Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! ' 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning. 
Ended all his mischief-making. 
All his gambling and his dancing, 
All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow. 
Spake and said : "0 Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Never more in human figure 
Shall you search for new adventures ; 
Never more with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds ; 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in circles ; 
I will change you to an eagle. 
To Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Chief of all the fowls with feathers. 
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers still among the people, 



182 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Lingers still among the singers, 

And among the story-tellers ; 

And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 

Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 

When the wind in gusty tumult 

O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 

** There," they cry, "comes Pau-Puk- 

Keewis ; 
He is dancing through the village, 
He is gathering in his harvest ! " 



XVIII. 

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwasind ; 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 
No man could compete with Kwasind. 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 
They the envious Little People, 
They the fairies and the pygmies, 
Plotted and conspired against him. 

" If this hateful Kwasind," said they, 
* ' If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer. 
Tearing everything he touches, 
Rending everything to pieces. 
Filling all the world with wonder, 
What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies ? 
Who Avill care for the Puk-Wudjies ? 
He will tread us down like mushrooms, 
Drive us all into the water, 
Give our bodies to be eaten 
By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By the Spirits of the water ! " 

So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong Man, 
All conspired to murder Kwasind, 
Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 
The audacious, overbearing, 
Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind ! 

Now this wondrous strength of Kwa- 
sind 
In his crown alone was seated : 
In his crown too was his weakness ; 
There alone could he be wounded. 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce him. 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could slay 

him. 
Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree. 
Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 
This was Kwasind's fatal secret. 
Known to no man among mortals ; 



But the cunning Little People, 
The Puk-A¥udjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together. 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the liver's margin, 
Heaped them in great piles together, 
Where the red rocks from the margin 
Jutting overhang the river. 
There they lay in wait for Kwasind, 
The malicious Little People. 

'T was an afternoon in Summer ; 
Very hot and still the air was. 
Very smooth the gliding river. 
Motionless the sleeping shadows : 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water. 
Filled the drowsy air with buzzing. 
With a far resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong Man, 
In his birch canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather, 
Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch-trees, 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended ; 
By his airy hosts surrounded, 
His invisible attendants. 
Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin ; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a murmur 
As of waves upon a sea-shore. 
As of far-off" tumbling waters, 
As of winds among the pine-trees ; 
And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs. 
Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
As of some one l)reathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs. 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind ; 
At the second blow they smote him. 
Motionless his paddle rested ; 
At the third, before his vision 
I Keeled the landscape into darkness, 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river. 
Like a blind man seated upright. 
Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch -trees. 
Underneath tl;e wooded headlands, 



THE GHOSTS. 



183 



Underneatli the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 
There they stood, all armed and wait- 

Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders, 
On his crown defenceless struck him. 
" Death to Kwasind ! " was the sudden 
War-cry of the Little People. 
, And he sideways swayed and tumbled, 
'Sideways fell into the river. 
Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
Headlong, as an otter ^ilunges ; 
And the birch-canoe, abandoned. 
Drifted empty down the river, 
Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 

But the memory of the Strong Man 
Lingered long among the people, 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest. 
And the branches, tossed and troubled, 
Creaked and groaned and split asunder, 
** Kwasind ! " cried they; "that is 

Kwasind ! 
He is gathering in his fire- wood ! " 



XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 

On his quarry in the desert. 

On the sick or wounded bison, 

But another vulture, watching 

From his high aerial look-out, 

Sees the downward plunge, and follows ; 

And a third pursues the second, 

Coming from the invisible ether, 

First a speck, and then a vulture, 

Till the air is dark with pinions. 

So disasters come not singly ; 
P)Ut as if they watched and waited, 
Scanning one another's motions. 
When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded, 
First a shadow, then a sorrow. 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 
Breathing on the lakes and rivers, 
Into stone had changed their waters. 
From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, 
Till the plains were strewn with white- 
ness, 



One uninterrupted level, 
As if, stooping, the Creator 
With his hand had smoothed them over- 
Through the forest, wide and wailing'j 
Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes ; 
In the village worked the women. 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skm • 
And the young men played together 
On the ice the noisy ball-play. 
On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown, 
In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 

On their faces gleamed the fire-light, 
Painting them with streaks of crimson, 
In the eyes of old Nokomis 
Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 
In the eyes of Laughing Water 
Glistened like the sun m Mater ; 
And behind them crouched their shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam, 
And the smoke in wreaths above them 
Climbed and crowded through the smcke- 
flue. 

Then the curtain of the doorway 
From without was slowly lifted ; 
Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 
And a moment swerved the smoke- 
wreath. 
As two women entered softly. 
Passed the doorway uninvited. 
Without word of salutation, 
Without sign of recognition. 
Sat down in the farthest corner, 
Crouching low among the shadows. 

From tlieir aspect and their garments, 
Strangers seemed they in the village ; 
Very pale and haggard were they. 
As they sat there sad and silent. 
Trembling, cowering with the shadows 

Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, 
Muttering down into the wigwam ? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest ? 
Sure a voice said in the silence : 
' ' These are corpses clad in garments. 
These are ghosts that come to haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter ! " 

Homeward now came Hiawatha 
From his hunting in the forest. 
With the snow upon his tresses, 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless burden ; 



184 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 
Than when first he came to woo her, 
Fii'st threw down the deer before her, 
As a token of his wishes, 
As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the strangers, 
Cowering, crouching with the shadows ; 
Said within himself, " Who are they ? 
What strange guests has Minnehaha ? " 
But he questioned not the strangers, 
Only spake to bid them welcome 
To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready. 
And the deer had been divided, 
Both the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Springing from among the shadows. 
Seized upon the choicest portions, 
Seized the white fat of the roebuck, 
Set apart for Laughing Water, 
For the wife of Hiawatha ; 
Without asking, without thanking, 
Eagerly devoured the morsels, 
Flitted back among the shadows 
In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 
Not a motion made Nokomis, 
Not a gesture Laughing Water ; 
Not a change came o'er their features ; 
Only Minnehaha softly 
Whispered, saying, ' ' They are famished ; 
Let them do what best delights them ; 
Let them eat, for they are famished. " 

Many a daylight dawned and darkened, 
Many a night shook off" the daylight 
As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes 
From the midnight of its branches ; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 
But by night, in storm or starlight. 
Forth they went into the forest. 
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 
Bringing pine-cones for the burning, 
Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting, 
AVhen the evening meal was ready, 
And the food had been divided, 
Gliding from their darksome corner, 
Came the pallid guests, the strangers, 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 
And without rebuke or question 
Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 
By a word or look reproved them ; 
Never once had old Nokomis 
Made a gesture of impatience ; 



I Never once had Laughing Water 
' Shown resentment at the outrage. 
All had they endured in silence, 
That the rights of guest and stranger, 
That the \irtue of free-giving. 
By a look might not be lessened. 
By a word might not be broken. 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 
Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 
In the wigwam, dimly lighted 
By the brands that still were burning, 
By the glimmering, flickeiing fire-light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated, 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 
From his shaggy hides of bison, 
Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, 
SaAV the pallid guests, the shadows, 
Sitting upright on their couches, 
Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said : " guests ! why is it 
That your hearts are so afflicted, 
That you sob so in the midnight ? 
Has perchance the old Nokomis, 
Has my wife, my Minnehaha, 
Wronged or giieved you by unkindness, 
Failed in hospitable duties ? " 

Then the shadows ceased from weeping, 
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, 
And they said, with gentle voices : 
"We are ghosts of the departed. 
Souls of those who once were with 

you. 
From the realms of Chibiabos 
Hither have we come to try you. 
Hither have we come to warn you. 
' ' Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the Blessed Islands ; 
Cries of anguish from the living, 
Calling back their friends departed. 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 
Therefore have we come to try you ; 
No one knows us, no one heeds us. 
We are but a burden to you. 
And we see that the departed 
Have no place among the living. 

"Think of this, Hiawatha ! 
Speak of it to all the people. 
That henceforward and forever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

' ' Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury. 
Not such weight of furs and wampum, 
Not such weight of pots and kettles, 
For the spirits faint beneath them. 



THE FAMINE. 



185 



Only give them food to carry, 
Only give them fire to light them. 

" Four days is the spirit's journey 
To the land of ghosts and shadows, 
Four its lonely night encampments ; 
Four times must their lires be lighted. 
Therefore, when the dead are buried, 
Let a tire, as night approaches, 
Four times on the grave be kindled, 
That the soul upon its journey 
May not lack the cheerful fire-light. 
May not grope about in darkness. 

"Farewell, noble Hiawatha ! 
We have put you to the trial. 
To the proof have put your patience, 
By the insult of our presence. 
By the outrage of our actions. 
We have found you great and noble. 
Fail not in the greater trial. 
Faint not in the harder struggle." 

When they ceased, a sudden darkness 
Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 
Hiawatha heard a rustle 
As of garments trailing by him, 
Heard the curtain of the doorway 
Lifted by a hand he saw not. 
Felt the cold breath of the night air, 
For a moment saw the starlight ; 
But he saw the ghosts no longer. 
Saw no more the wandering spirits 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter. 



XX. 

THE FAMINE. 

THE long and dreary Winter ! 
the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river. 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape. 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigAvam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit. 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from Aveakness, 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

the famine and the fever ! 
the wasting of the famine ! 



the blasting of the fever ! 
the wailing of the children ! 

the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the aii" around them. 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
xVs the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited. 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water ; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : ' ' Behold me . 

1 am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 

And the other said : ' ' Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered. 
Lay down on her bed in silence. 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her. 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow. 
In his face a stony firmness ; 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunt- 
ing. 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree. 
With his quiver full of arrows. 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward 

"Gitche ]\Ianito, the Mighty ! " 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
" Give your children food, father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha ! " 

Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying. 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
"Minnehaha ! jMinnehaha ! '' 

All day long roved Hiawatha 



186 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



In that melancholy forest, 
Through the shadow of whose thickets, 
In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
Andthe streamlets laughed and glistened. 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing AVater 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
*' I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
W ith those gloomy guests, that watched 

her. 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 

"Hark ! "she said ; "I hear a rushing. 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night- wind in the pine-trees ! " 

*' Look ! " she said ; *' I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke, that waves and beck- 
ons ! " 

" Ah ! " said she, ' ' the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest. 
Miles away among the mountains. 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish. 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, M^ailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had i)erished for you. 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning. 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 



And his bursting heart within him 

Uttered such a cry of anguish, ■ 

That the forest moaned and shuddered, 

That the very stars in heaven 

Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speechless^ 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine ; 
Covered her with snow, like ermine, 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest. 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising. 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished. 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell ! " said he, *' Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you. 
All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed. 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow • 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
( To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 
i 

XXI. 

THE WHITE man's FOOT. 

In his lodge beside a river, 
Close beside a frozen river, 
Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 



THE WHITE MAN S FOOT. 



1S7 



White his hair was as a snow-drift ; 
Dull and low his fire was burning, 
And the old man shook and trembled, 
Folded in his Waubewyon, 
In his tattered white-skin-wrapper. 
Hearing nothing but the tempest 
As it roared along the forest. 
Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 
As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 

All the coals were white with ashes, 
And the fire was slowly dying, 
As a young man, walking lightly, 
At the open doorway entered. 
Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, 
Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
Bound his forehead was with grasses. 
Bound and plumed with scented grasses ; 
On his lips a smile of beauty. 
Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
In his hand a bunch of blossoms 
Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 

*' Ah, my son ! " exclaimed the old man, 
" Happy are my eyes to see you. 
Sit here on the mat beside me. 
Sit here by the dying embers. 
Let us pass the night together. 
Tell me of your strange adventures. 
Of the lands where you have travellsd ; 
I will tell you of my prowess. 
Of my many deeds of wonder." 

From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, 
Very old and strangely fashioned ; 
Made of red stone was the pipe-head. 
And the stem a reed with feathers ; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow. 
Placed a burning coal upon it, 
Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 
And began to speak in this wise : 

" When I blow my breath about me. 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Motionless are all the rivers, 
Hard as stone becomes the water ! " 

And the young man answered, smiling : 
' ' When I blow my breath about me, 
When I breathe upon the landscape, 
Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows. 
Singing, on Ward rush the rivers ! " 

*' When I shake my hoary tresses," 
Said the old man darkly frowning, 
*' All the land with snow is covered ; 
All the leaves from all the branches 
Fall and fade and die and wither. 
For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
From the waters and the marshes 
Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
Fly away to distant regions. 
For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 



And where'er my footateps wander, 
All the wild beasts of the forest 
Hide themselves in holes and caverns. 
And the earth becomes as flintstone ! " 

" When I shake my flowing ringlets," 
Said the young man, softly laughing, 
" Showers of rain fall warm and welcome^ 
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 
Back unto their lakes and marshes 
Come the wild goose and the heron, 
Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow. 
Sing the bluebird and the robin. 
And where'er my footsteps wander, 
All the meadows wave with blossoms. 
All the woodlands ring with music. 
All the trees are dark with foliage ! " 

While they spake, the night departed 
From the distant realms of Wabun, 
From his shining lodge of silver. 
Like a warrior robed and painted. 
Came the sun, and said, " Behold me ! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! " 

Then the old man's tongue was speech 
less 
And the air grew warm and pleasant. 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the bluebird and the robin. 
And the stream began to murmur, 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 

And Segwun, the youthful stranger. 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him ; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended, 
Till into the air it faded. 
Till into the ground it vanished, 
And the young man saw before him. 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
Where the fire had smoked and smoul 

dered. 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time. 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North-land 
After that unheard-of coldness. 
That intolerable Winter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendor. 
All its birds and all its blossoms. 
All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward, 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows. 
Like huge arrows shot through heaven, 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 



I 



188 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder, 
Came the white goose, Waw-be-Avawa ; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, 
Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions. 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him, 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway. 
Stood and gazed into the heaven, 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward. 
From the regions of the morning. 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned lagoo. 
The great traveller, the great boaster, 
Full of new and strange adventures. 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures. 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
" Ugh ! it is indeed lagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders ! " 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big- Sea- Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
At each other looked the warriors. 
Looked the women at each other. 
Smiled, and said, " It cannot be so ! 
Kaw ! " they said, "it cannot be so ! " 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying. 
Bigger than a gi'ove of pine-trees. 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 
*'Kaw !" they said, "we don't believe 
it! " 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
Came Wajrwassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor lagoo ; 
** Kaw ! " they said, " what tales you 
tell us ! " 



In it, said he, came a people, 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors ; 
Painted white were all their faces 
And with hair their chins were covered : 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision. 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops. 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
" Kaw ! " they said, " what lies you tell 

us ! 
Do not think that we believe them ! " 

Only Hiawatha laughed not. 
But he gravely spake and answered 
To their jeering and their jesting : 
" True is all lagoo tells us ; 
I have seen it in a vision. 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces. 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

"Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand. 
Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo. 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us. 
Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. 

" Let us welcome, then, the strangers, 
Hail them as our friends and brothers. 
And the heart's right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

" I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future. 
Of the distant days that shall be. 
I beheld the westward marches 
Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people, 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving. 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
In the woodlands rang their axes, 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys, 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

" Then a darker, drearier vision 
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like 
I beheld our nation scattered, 
All forgetful of my counsels. 
Weakened, warring with each other : 



HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 



189 



Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful, 
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of Autunni 



XXIL 

HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE, 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was lull of freshness, 
All the earth was bright and joyous, 
And before him, through the sunshine. 
Westward toward the neighboring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers. 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Blight above him shone the heavens. 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon. 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine ; 
On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water. 
Every tree-top had its shadow. 
Motionless beneath the v»'ater. 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow, 
As the fog from off the water, 
As the mist from off" the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation. 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to be, but is not, 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it. 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features. 
Flecked with light his naked shoulders, 
A.S it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O'er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance. 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water. 
Now seemed floating, now seemed fly- 
ing, 
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 

Was it Shingebis the diver ? 
Or the pelican, the Shada ? 
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 



With the water dripping, flashing, 
From its glossy neck and feathers ? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pelican nor heron, 
O'er the water floating, flying, 
Through the shining mist of morning. 
But a birch canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine ; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet. 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended. 
Held aloft in sign of welcome. 
Waited, full of exultation. 
Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles. 
Stranded on the sandv margin. 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
With the cross upon his bosom, 
Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
"Beautiful is the sun, strangers. 
When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you. 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
You shall enter all our wigwams. 
For the heart's right hand we give you. 

"Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 
Never shone the sun so brightly. 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil. 
Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ; 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 

' ' Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor. 
Never the broad leaves of our cornfields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 
As they seem to us this morning, 
When you come so far to see us ! " 

And the Black-Robe chief made an 
SAver, 
Stammered in his speech a little. 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 
" Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary ! " 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 



190 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Seated them on skins of bison, 
Seated them on skins of ermine, 
.^nd the careful, old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass- 
wood. 
Water brought in birchen dippers. 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe. 
Filled and lighted for their smoking 

All the old men of the village, 
All the warriors of the nation. 
All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 
*' It is well," they said, " brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

In a circle round the doorway. 
With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers. 
Waiting to receive their message ; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
From the wigwam came to greet them. 
Stammering in his speech a little. 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
" It is well," they said, " brother. 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then the Black-Eobe chief, the 
prophet. 
Told his message to the people, 
Told the purport of his mission. 
Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do ; 
How he fasted, prayed, and labored ; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified 

him ; 
How he rose from where they laid him. 
Walked again Avith his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, saying : 
" We have listened to your message. 
We have heard your words of wisdom. 
We Avill think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, brothers. 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam. 
To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Whom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun, 

Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam. 



With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it ; 
From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, 
And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest. 
Breaking through its shields of shadow. 
Rushed into each secret ambush. 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow ; 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 

From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered: 

" I Bm going, Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind. 
Of the Northwest wind, Kecnvaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me. 
In your watch and wsnd I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them. 
See that never fear molests them. 
Never danger nor suspicion, 
Never want of food or shelter. 
In the lodge of Hiawatha ! " 

Forth into the village went he. 
Bade farewell to all the warriors. 
Bade farewell to all the young men. 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

" I am going, my people. 
On a long and distant journey ; 
Many moons and many winte/s 
Will have come, and will have vanished, 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But my guests I leave behind me ; 
Listen to their Avords of wisdom. 
Listen to the truth they tell you. 
For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! '" 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand pt parting ; 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch canoe for sailing. 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water ; 
Whispered to it, " Westward ! west 

ward ! " 
And with speed it darted forward. 

And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness, 



MILES STANDISM. 



191 



Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset, 
Sailed into the purple vapors, 
Sailed into the dusk of evening. 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendor. 
Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, ' ' Farewell forever ! ' 
Said, " Farewell, Hiawatha ! " 
And the forests, dark and lonely, 



Moved through all their depths of dark. 

ness. 
Sighed, "Farewell, Hiawatha!" 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 
Sobbed, "Farewell, Hiawatha!" 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her haunts among the fen-lands 
Screamed, " Farewell, Hiawatha I '' 

Thus departed Hiawatlia, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the sunset. 
In the purple mists of evening. 
To the regions of the home- wind. 
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the laud of the Hereafter ! 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony da5'^s, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, 

Strode, with a martial air. Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. 

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing 

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare. 

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — 

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence. 

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchloclr. 

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic. 

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron ; 

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already 

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion. 

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window ; 

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, 

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives 

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, " Not Angles, but Angels." 

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting. 
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 
* ' Look at these arms, " he said, ' * the warlike weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection ! 
This is the sword of Damascus I fought "wath in Flanders ; this breastplate. 
Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a skirmish ; 



192 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet 

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. 

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses/' 

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing : 

' ' Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet ; 

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon ! " 

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling : 

" See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging ; 

That is because 1 have done it myself, and not left it to others. 

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage ; 

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. 

Then, too, there are ray soldiers, my great, invincible army, 

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock. 

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, 

And, like Csesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers ! " 

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams 

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment, 

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued ; 

" Look ! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted 

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, 

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic. 

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. 

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians ; 

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — 

Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, 

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon ! " 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, 
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, 
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, 
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. 
Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape. 
Gloom intermingled with light ; and his voice was subdued with emotion, 
Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded : 
"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish ; 
Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside ! 
She was the tirst to die of all Avho came in the May Flower ! 
Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, 
Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people. 
Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished ! " 
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. 

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding ; 
Bariff"e's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Csesar 
Out of the Latin translated by Artluir Goldinge of London, 
And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. 
Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful 
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort. 
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, 
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. 
Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, 
Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 193 

Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, 
Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing ! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, 
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, 
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ! 



II. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, 

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. 

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, 

Heavily on the page : " A wonderful man was this Csesar ! 

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow 

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful ! " 

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful : 

" Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. 

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate 

Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs." 

"Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, 

" Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Ciesar ! 

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after ; 

3attles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered f* 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; 

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together 

There was no room for their swords ? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier. 

Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, 

Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; 

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons ; 

So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. 

That 's what I always say ; if you wish a thing to be well done. 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, 
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ; 
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, 
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, 
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla ! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, 
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket. 
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Phonouth : 
" When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; I shall not be impatient ! " 
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters. 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention : 
" Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, 
13 



194 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish." 

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases : 

" 'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. 

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it ; 

Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. 

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary ; 

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. 

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. 

She is alone in the world ; her father and mother and brother 

Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and coming, 

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, 

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever 

There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven. 

Two have I seen and known ; and the a^agel whose name is Priscilla 

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. 

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, 

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. 

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, 

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, 

Ofiers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. 

Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning ; 

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, 

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, 

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden." 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, 
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered. 
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject Avith lightness. 
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, 
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning. 
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered : 
"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it ; 
If you would have it well done, — I am only repeating your maxim, — 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, 
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth : 
' ' Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it ; 
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. 
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. 
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, 
But march up to a Avoman with such a proposal, 1 dare not. 
I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, 
But of a thundering " No ! " point-blank from the mouth of a woman, 
That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! 
So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar. 
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases." 
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful. 
Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added : 
" Though I have sjjoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me 
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship ! ' 
Then made answer John Alden : " The name of friendship is sacred ; 
What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you ! " 
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, 
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 



THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 195 

III. 

THE lover's errand. 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, 

Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building 

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, 

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, " 

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. 

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, 

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, 

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean ! 

*• Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation, — 

" Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? 

Was it for this 1 have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence ? 

Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow 

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England ? 

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ; 

Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. 

All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 

This is the hand of the Lord ; it is laid upon me in anger, 

For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices, 

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. 

This is the cross I must bear ; the sin and the swift retribution." 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and s{lalIo^v^ 
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him. 
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness. 
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber, 
" Puritan flowers," he said, " and the type of Puritan maidens, 
Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla ! 
So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, 
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them ; 
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, 
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver." 
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, 
Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind ; 
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow ; 
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla 
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, 
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, * 

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. 
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle. 
While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. 
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, 
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, 
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. 
Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, 



196 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being ! 
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, 
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand ; 
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, 
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion. 
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. 
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, 
** Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, 
Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living, 
It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endureth forever ! " 

So he entered the house : and the hum of the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome. 
Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage ; 
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden. 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter, 
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, 
Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, 
Stamping the snow frxDm his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla 
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside. 
Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snoAV-storm. 
Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had he spoken ; 
Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had vanished ! 
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time, 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower that sailed on the morrow 
" I hav^e been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden, 
'* Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of England, — 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together. 
And, at the end of the street, the village church, Avitli the ivy 
Climbing the old gray towei-, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people 1 live with, and dear to me my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it : I almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched." 

Thereupon answered the youth : " Indeed I do not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on ; 
So I have come to you now, with an off'er and proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true. Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth ! " 

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, — 
Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases. 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a school-boy ; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. 



THE LOVER'S EKRANb. 197 

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder. 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless ; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence : 
" If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me. 
Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning ! " 
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter. 
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things ; — such things ! the words grating harshly- 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash she made answer : 
" Has no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married. 
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding ? 
That is the way with you men ; you don't understand us, you cannot. 
When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that onej 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another. 
Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, 
And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected. 
Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing. 
This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's affection 
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. 
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. 
Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, 
Even this Captain of yours — who knows ? — at last might have won me» 
Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can happen." 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, 
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding ; 
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, 
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, 
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth ; 
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, 
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish ; 
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent 
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. 
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature ; 
Though he was lough, he was kindly ; she knew how during the winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's ; 
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, 
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always. 
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature ; 
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous ; 
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, 
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language. 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival. 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you speak for yourself, John ' " 



198 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

IV. 

JOHN ALDEN. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, 
Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side ; 
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, 
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. 
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, 
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 
So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, 
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted 
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 

*' Welcome, wind of the East ! " he exclaimed in his wild exultation, 
" Welcome, wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic ! 
Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass. 
Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean ! 
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me 
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing. 
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. 
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending ; 
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding. 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty ! 
" Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden has chosen between us ? 
Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that 1 am the victor ? " 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet : 
" It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and he thought of David's transgression, 
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle ! 
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once ; and he cried in the deepest contrition : 
** It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the temptation of Satan ! " 

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding at anchor, 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow ; 
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir !" 
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 
** Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured ; *' the hand of the Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error. 
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, 
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. 
Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon. 
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, 
Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of mj'- kindred ; 
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor ! 
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber 
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers 
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness, — 
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter ! " 



JOHN ALDEN. 199 

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, 
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight. 
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, 
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. 
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of C«sar, 
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. 
" Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery demeanor, 
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. 
** Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us ; 
But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming 
I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. 
Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened." 

Then John Alden s]>ake, and related the wondrous adventure, 
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened ; 
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, 
Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. 
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken. 
Words so tender and cruel : ' ' Why don't you speak for yourself, John ? " 
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor 
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. 
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion. 
E'en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. 
Wildly he shouted, and loud : "John Alden ! you have betrayed me ! 
Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me ! 
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler ; 
Who shall prevent me from running my own through the lieart of a traitor ' 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! 
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother ; 
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping 
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret, — 
You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred ! " 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, 
Chafing and choking with rage ; like cords were the veins on his temples. 
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway. 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance. 
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, 
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron. 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning iiercelj^ departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness. 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood. 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming ; 
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment. 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven. 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 



200 - THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

God had sifted three kmgdoms to find the wheat for this planting, 

Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation ; 

So say the chronicles old, and such is'^the faith of the people ! 

Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant. 

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect ; 

While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, 

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, 

And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, 

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows ; a signal and challenge of warfare, 

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. 

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating 

What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace. 

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting ; 

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, 

Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted. 

Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior ! 

Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 

Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, 

"What ! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses ? 

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted 

There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils ? 

'''ruly the only tongue that is understood by a savage 

Must be the tongue of tire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon ! " 

Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, 

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language : 

" Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles ; 

Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with ! " 

But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, 

Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing : 

" Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. 

War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is righteous. 

Sweet is the smell of powder ; and thus I answer the challenge ! " 

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, 
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets 
Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage. 
Saying, in thundering tones : " Here, take it ! this is your answer ! " 
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage. 
Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent. 
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. 



V. 

THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, 
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth ; 
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, " Forward ! 
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. 
Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. 
Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, 
Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men. 
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. 
Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David ; 
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, — 
Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 201 

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning ; 
Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing 
Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. 

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. 
Sweet was the air and soft ; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward ; 
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather. 
Said that the wind had changed, and' was blowing fair for the May Flowei , 
Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that menaced. 
He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women 
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. 
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming ; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor. 
Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. 
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, 
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people ! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty ! 
Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, 
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. 
He had beheld Miles Standi sh, who came back late from the council, 
Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. 
Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence ; 
Then he had turned away, and said : "I will not awake him ; 
Let him sleep on, it is best ; for what is the use of more talking ! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders, -- 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. 
But with the dawn he arose ; in the twilight Alden beheld him 
Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, 
Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon ; 
All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions ; 
But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him, — 
Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, 
Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not ! 
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the peojile were saying. 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, 



202 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, 
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, already a ?ittle impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward. 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, 
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale. 
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, 
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. 
He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish. 
Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, 
Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. 
But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla 
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. 
Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, 
Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, 
That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose. 
As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. 
Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts ! 
Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments. 
Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine ! 
" Here 1 remain ! " he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, 
Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,- 
Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 
** Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me. 
Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. 
There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, 
Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. 
Float, hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether ! 
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me ; I heed not 
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil ! 
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, 
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. 
Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence 
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness ; 
Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing. 
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving ! " 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important. 
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the Aveather, 
Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, 
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off" to his vessel, 
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry. 
Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, 
Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel ! 
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. 
strong hearts and true ! not one went back in the May Flower ! 
No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing i 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. 



PRISCILLA. 203 

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, 
Blowing steady and strong ; and the May Flower sailed from the harbor, 
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel. 
Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; 
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, 
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 

Said, " Let us pray ! " and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took coura,ge. 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them 
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean 
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; 
Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. 
Lo ! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, 
Watching them from the hill ; but while they spake Avith each other, _ 
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, " Look ! " he had vanished. 
So they returned to their homes ; but Alden lingered a little. 
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows 
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine. 
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. 



YI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus fhr a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla ; 

And as if thought had the power to draAv to itself, like the loadstone, 

Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, 

Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 

** Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me ?" said she. 
"Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward. 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it ; 
For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion. 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, 
Spilt on the gi-ound like water, can never be gathered together 
Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, 
Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues. 
Praising his courage and strength, and even his iighting in Flanders, 
As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman. 
Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. 
Therefore I spake as I did, by an ii-resistible impulse. 
You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, 
Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken ! " 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish 



204 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

" I was not Angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, 

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping." 

"No ! " interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive ; 

"No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. 

It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of a woman 

Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, 

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. 

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women 

Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers 

Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, 

Chafing their cliannels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women : 

" Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they seem to me always 

More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, 

More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, 

Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden ! " 

" Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted the maiden, 

"How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. 

When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, 

Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, 

Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest. 

Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. 

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that.-^~ in you ; 

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble. 

Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 

Therefore I value your fiiendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly 

If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many. 

If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases 

Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, 

But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, 
Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. 
So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined 
What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. 
" Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things 
Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. 
It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it : 
I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. 
So I was hurt at your words, and a little aff'ronted to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. 
For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is your friendship ^ 
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him." 
Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it. 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling : 
" Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest ! " 

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the May Flower, 
Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon. 
Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, 
That all the rest liad departed and left them alone in the desert. 
But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine, 
Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly : 



THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 205 

•' Now that our terrible Captain lias gone in pursuit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, 

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, 

When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story, — 

Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish, 

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, 

" He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment ! " 

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered, — 

How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, 

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened, — 

All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, 

** Truly I thank you for this : how good you have been to me always ! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, 
Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward. 
Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition ; 
Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, 
Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, 
Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. 



VIL 

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward. 

Winding through forest and swamj), and along the trend of the sea-shore, 

All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger 

Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder 

Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 

Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort ; 

He who was used to success, and to easy victories always. 

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, 

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted ! 

Ah ! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor ! 

" I alone am to blame," he muttered, " for mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness. 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? 
'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish like so many others I 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers ! " 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort. 
While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest. 
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 

After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment 
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest ; 
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, liorrid with war-paint, 
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ; 
Who, when thev saw from afar the sudden approach of the Avhite men, 
Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, 
Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, 
Came to parley with Standish, and oifer him furs as a present ; 
Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. 



206 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, 

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan ; 

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. 

Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, 

Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. 

Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. 

*' Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words they had learned from the trader^ 

Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. 

Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, 

Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, 

Begging for blankets and knives, laut mostly for muskets and powder, 

Kept b}'' the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars. 

Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man ! 

But when Standish refused, and said he would give tiiem the Bible, 

Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. 

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, 

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain : 

*' Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, 

Angry is he in his heart ; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat 

Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, 

But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning. 

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him. 

Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat ? ' " 

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, 

Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the liandle, 

Sa3dng, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning : 

*' I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle ; 

By and by they shall marry ; and there will be plenty of children ! " 

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self- vaunting, insulting Miles Standish : 
While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom. 
Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, 
" By and by it shall see ; it shall eat ; ah, ha ! but shall speak not ! 
This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us ! 
He is a little man ; let him go and work with the Avomen ! " 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest. 
Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, 
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. 
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly ; 
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. 
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, 
AH the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, 
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. 
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. 
Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop. 
And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, 
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows, 
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, 
Out of the lightning thunder ; and death unseen ran before it. 
Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket. 
Hotly pursued a.nd beset ; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 
Fled not ; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 



THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 207 

Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands ckitching the greensward, 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. 

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them. 
Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. 
Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth : 
" Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature, — 
Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man ; but I see now 
Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you ! ' 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish 
When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, 
And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 
Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress. 
All Avho beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. 
Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, 
Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish ; 
Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles,^ 
He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor 



VIII. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the merchants 

Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 

All in the village was peace ; the men vv-ere intent on their labors. 

Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, 

Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, 

Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. 

All in the village was peace ; but at times the rumor of warfare 

Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. 

Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the land with his forces, 

Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, 

Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. 

A-nger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 

Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, 

Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rusli of a river. 

Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. 

Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation. 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes ; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper. 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 
There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard : 
Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. 
Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, 
Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden's allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 
Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, 
Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. 



208 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Ever of her lie thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling ; 

Ever of her he thought, w^hen he delved in the soil of his garden ; 

Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday 

Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, — 

How the heart of her husliand doth safely trust in her always, 

How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, 

How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness. 

How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff. 

How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household. 

Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving j 

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, 
A-lden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers. 
As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune^ 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. 
"Truly, Priscilla," he said, "when I see you spinning and spinning, 
Kever idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others. 
Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment ; 
You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Si)inner." 
Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter ; the spindle 
Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers ; 
"While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued : 
"You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia ; 
She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, 
Ever was spinning her thread from a distatf fixed to her saddle. 
She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. 
So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. 
Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it Avas in their childhood, 
Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner ! " 
Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puiitan maiden. 
Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest. 
Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, 
Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden : 
•* Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern for housewives, 
Shov/ yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 
Hold this skein on your ha,nds, while I wind it, ready for knitting ; 
Then who knows but hereafter, Avhen fashions have changed and the manners, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden ! " 
Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted. 
He sitting awkwardly there, Avith his arms extended before him. 
She standing graceful, erect, and Avinding the thread from his fingert:. 
Sometimes chiding a little hi? clumsy manner of holding, 

Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly M 

Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for hoAV could she help it ? — ■ 

Sending electrical thrills throagk every nerve in his body. " 



Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, 
Bringing in huriy and heat the terrible r^ews from the village. 
Yes ; Miles Standish Avas dead ! — an Indian had brought them the tidings, 
Slain by a poisoned arroAV, shot down in the front of the battle, 
Into an ambush beguiled, cut off" Avith the Avhole of his forces ; 
All the town Avould be bunied, and all the people be murdered I 
Such Avere the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backw^ard 
Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror j 



I 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 209 

But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow 
Piercing rhe heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered 
Once and forever the bonds that hehl him bound as a captive, 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming : 
"Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder ! " 

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest ; 
So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels. 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. 

IX. 

THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent. 
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead. 
Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together ; the Elder and Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel» 
One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal. 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence, 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. 
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, 
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Divine benedictions. 

Lo ! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, 
Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure ! 
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition ? 
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder ? 
Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illusion ? 
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to Ibrbid the betrothal? 
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvite(J, unwelcomed ; 
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression 
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, 
As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud 
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. 
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent. 
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. 
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction. 
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement 
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth ! 



210 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, " Forgive me ! 
I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I cherished the feeling ; 
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God ! it is ended. 
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, 
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. 
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden." 
Thereupon answered the bridegroom : " Let all be forgotten between us, — 
All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer ! " 
Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, 
Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, 
Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, 
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.^ 
Then he said with a smile : *' 1 should have remembered the adage, — 
If you woald be well served, you must serve yourself ; and moreover, 
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas ! " 

Great was the j)eople's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, 
Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain, 
Whom they had mourned as dead ; and they gathered and crowded about him, 
Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, 
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other. 
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, 
He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, 
Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, 
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. 
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, 
Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation ; 
There M'ere the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, 
There the familiar fields, the gi'oves of pine, and the meadows ; 
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, 
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was tiie sound of the ocean. 

Soon was their ^dsion disturbed by the noise and stir of departure. 
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, 
Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. 
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, 
Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, 
Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master. 
Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils. 

Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. - 

She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday ; m 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. m 

Somewhat alarmed at iirst, but reassured b}^ the others, 
Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, 
Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. li 

*' Nothing is wanting now," li^ said with a smile, "but the distaff ; ■ 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha ! " 

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest. 
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom. 
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors. 
Gleaming on purple gi-apes, that, from branches above them suspended. 



PROMETHEUS. 



211 



Mingled their odorous Ijreath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, 

Wild and sweet as the clusters that gi'ew in the valley of Eshcol. 

Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, 

Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 

Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always. 

Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. 

So thi'ough the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 



. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. 

Dante. 



PROMETHEUS, 

OR THE poet's FORETHOUGHT. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus' shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 
Myths are told and songs are chanted, 
Full of promptings and suggestions. 

Beautiful is the tradition 

Of that flight through heavenly portals, 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 

Of the fire of the Immortals ! 

First the deed of noble daring, 

Born of heavenward aspiration, 

Then the fire with mortals sharing, 

Then the vulture, — the despairing 

Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 

All is but a symbol painted 

Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; 
Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted, 

Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exultations. 

In their triumph and their yearning, 
In their passionate pulsations. 
In their words among the nations, 

The Promethean fire is burning. 

Shall it, then, be unavailing, 
All this toil for human culture ? 

Through the cloud-rack, dark and trail- 
ing 

Must they see above them sailing 
O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? 



Such a fate as this was Dante's, 

By defeat and exile maddened -, 
Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature's priests and Corybantes, 
By affliction touched and saddened. 

But the glories so transcendent 

That around their memories cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant. 
Make their darkened lives resplendent 
With such gleams of inward lustre ! 

All the melodies mysterious, 

Through the dreary darkness chanted ; 
Thoughts in attitudes imperious. 
Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 

Words that whispered, songs that 
haunted ! 

All the soul in rapt suspension. 
All the quivering, palpitating 

Chords of life in utmost tension, 

With the fervor of invention. 
With the rapture of creating ! 

Ah, Prometheus ! heaven -scaling ! 

In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquailing 
Might behold the vulture sailing 

Round the cloudy crags Caucasian 

Though to all there is not given 

Strength for such sublime endeavor, 
Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 
And to leaven with fiery leaven 
All the hearts of men forever ; 

Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 
Honor and believe the presage, 



212 



BIKDS OF PASSAGE. 



Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
Gleaming through the realms benighted, 
As they onward bear the message ! 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUS- 
TINE- 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said. 
That of our vices we can frame 

A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 

All common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end. 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

The low desire, the base design. 
That makes another's virtues less ; 

The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all occasions of excess ; 

The longing for ignoble things ; 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, 
That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb 
By slow degrees, by more and more, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 

When nearer seen, and better known. 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies. 

Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and 
kept 
Were not attained by sudden flight. 
But they, while their companions slept, 
. Were toiling upward in the night. 



Standing on what too long we bore 
With shoulders bent and do^vncast 
eyes. 

We may discern — unseen before - 
A path to higher destinies. 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain. 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



THE PHANTOM SHIP 

In Mather's Magnalia Christ!, 

Of the old colonial time. 
May be found in prose the legena 

That is here set down in rhyme. 

A ship sailed from New Haven, 
And the keen and frosty airs, 

That filled her sails at parting, 

Were heavy with good men's prayers. 

" Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — 
Thus prayed the old divine — 

" To bury our friends in the ocean, 
Take them, for they are thine ! " 

But Master Lamberton muttered. 
And under his breath said he, 

* ' This ship is so crank and walty 
I fear our grave she will be I " 

And the ships that came from England, 
Wlien the winter months were gone. 

Brought no tidings of this vessel 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 

This put the people to praying 

That the Lord would let them hear 

What in his greater wisdom 

He had done with friends so dear. 

And at last their prayers were an- 
swered : — 

It was in the month of June, 
An hour before the sunset 

Of a windy afternoon. 

When, steadily steering landward, 

A ship was seen below. 
And they knew it was Lamberton, Mas- 
ter, 

Who sailed so long ago. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE POKTS. 



213 



On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 
Right against the wind that blew, 

LTntil the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts, 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 

And her sails were loosened and lifted, 
And blown away like clouds. 



And the masts, with all their rigging, 

Fell slowly, one by one. 
And the hulk dilated and vanished, 

As a sea-mist in the sun ! 



And the people who saw this marvel 

Each said unto his friend, 
That this was the mould of their vessel, 

And thus her tragic end. 



And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer. 

That, to quiet their troubled spirit?- 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CmQUE 
PORTS. 

A MIST was driving down the British 
Channel, 
The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor 
and panel. 
Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling 
pennon, 
And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the 
black cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, 
and Dover 
Were all alert that day, 
To see the French war-steamers speeding 
over, 
When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant 
lions, 
Their cannon, through the night. 



Holding their breath, had watched, in 
glim defiance. 
The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from 
their stations 
On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morning salu- 
tations. 
That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the 
burden, 
Replied the distant forts, 
As if to summon from his sleep the 
Warden 
And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of 
azure. 
No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black fort's 
embrasure, 
Awaken with its call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impar- 
tial 
The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field 
Marshal 
Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single war- 
rior. 
In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De- 
stroyer, 
The rampart wall had scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the 
sleeper. 
The dark and silent room. 
And as he entered, darker grew, and 
deeper. 
The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parley or dissemble 
But smote the Warden hoar ; 

Ah ! what a blow ! that made all Eng- 
land tremble 
And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 
waited. 

The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 

That a great man was dead. 



214 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



HAUNTED HOUSES. 

A.LL houses wherein men have lived and 
died 
Are haunted houses. Through the 
open doors 
The harmless phantoms on their errands 
glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon 
the floors. 

\Ve meet them at the doorway, on the 
stair, 
Along the passages they come and go. 
Impalpable impressions on the air, 
A sense of something moving to and 
fro. 

There are more guests at table, than the 
hosts 
Invited ; the illuminated hall 
is thronged with quiet, inoffensive 



As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds 
I hear ; 
He but perceives what is ; while unto 
me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 

AVe have no title-deeds to house or 
lands ; 
Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their 
dusty hands, 
And hold in mortmain still their old 
estates. 

The spirit-world around this world of 
sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and every- 
where 
Wafts through these earthly mists and 
vapors dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 
By opposite attractions and desires ; 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys. 
And the more noble instinct that as- 
pires. 

These perturbations, this perpetual jar 
Of earthly wants and as])irations high, 



Come from the influence of an unseen 
star. 
An undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon from some dark gate 
of cloud 
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge 
of light, 
Across whose trembling planks our fan-' 
cies crowd 
Into the realm of mystery and night, — 

So from the world of spirits there de- 
scends 
A bridge of light, connecting it with 
this, 
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways 
and bends. 
Wander our thoughts above the dark 
abyss. 



m THE CHURCHYARD AT CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

In the village churchyard she lies, 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 

No more she breathes, nor feels, nor 
stirs ; 
At her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead. 

But their dust is white as hers. 



Was she a lady of high degree, 
So much in love with the vanity 

And foolish pomp of this world of 
ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity. 
And lowliness and humility. 

The richest and rarest of all dowei's .? 

Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
No color shoots into those cheeks, 

Either of anger or of pride, 
At the rude question we have asked ; "" 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked 

By those who are sleeping at her side. 

Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 
On the terrible pages of that Book 

To find her failings, faults, and errors? 
Ah, you will then have other cares. 
In your own shortcomings and despairs. 

In your own secret sins and terrors ! 



THE TWO ANGELS. 



215 



THE EMPEROK'S BIRD'S-NEST. 

Once the Emperor Charlesof Spain, 

With his swarthy, grave commanders, 
I forget in what campaign, 
Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 

In great boots of S])anish leather, 
Striding with a measured tramp. 
These Hidalgos, dull and damp. 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the 
weather. 

Thus as to and fro they went, 

Over upland and through hollow, 
Giving their impatience vent. 
Perched upon the Emperor's tent. 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow's nest, 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 
Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, 
Found on hedge-rows east and Avest, 
After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
*'Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 
And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 

Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice. 
Half in anger, half in shame. 
Forth the great campaigner came 

Slowly from his canvas palace. 

" Let no hand the bird molest," 
Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her ! " 

Adding then, by way of jest, 

" Golondrina is my guest, 
'T is the wife of some deserter ! " 

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 
Through the camp was spread the ru- 
mor, 
And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had mady 
And the siege was thus concluded. 



Then the army, elsewhere bent, 
Struck its tents as if disbanding, 

Only not the Emperor's tent, 

For he ordered, ere he went, 

Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 

So it stood there all alone. 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 
Till the brood was fledged and flown, 
Singing o'er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morning 
broke ; 
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath. 
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes 
of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same. 
Alike their features and their robes of 
white ; 
But one was crowned with amaranth, as 
with flame, 
And one with asphodels, like flakes of 
light. 

I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt 
oppressed, 
" Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou 
betray 
The place where thy beloved are at 
rest ! " 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 

Descending, at my door began to 

knock. 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 

The waters sink before an earthquake's 

shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony. 

The terror and the tremor and the 
pain. 
That oft before had filled or haunted me, 
And now returned w^ith threefold 
strength again. 

1 The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
And listened, for I thought I heard 
i God's voice j 



216 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was 
best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house 
with light, 
"My errand is not Death, but Life," 
he said ; 
And ere I answered, passing out of sight. 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'T was at thy door, friend ! and not at 
mine, 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath. 
Pausing, descended, and with voice di- 
vine. 
Whispered a word that had a sound 
like Death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and 
thin; 
And softly, from that hushed and dark- 
ened room. 
Two angels issued, where but one went 
in. 

All is of God ! If he but wave his hand. 

The mists collect, the rain falls thick 

and loud. 

Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, 

Lo ! he looks back from the departing 

cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his ; 
Without his leave they pass no thresh- 
old o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing 
this, 
Against his messengers to shut the 
door? 



DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

In broad daylight, and at noon. 
Yesterday I saw the moon 
Sailing high, but faint and white, 
As a school-boy's paper kite. 

In broad daylight, yesterday, 
I read a Poet's mystic lay ; 
And it seemed to me at most 
As a phantom, or a ghost. 

But at length the feverish day 
Like a passion died away. 



And the night, serene and still. 
Fell on village, vale, and hill. 

Then the moon, in all her pride, 
Like a spirit glorified. 
Filled and overflowed the night 
With revelations of her light. 

And the Poet's song again 
Passed like music through my brain , 
Night interpreted to me 
All its grace and mystery. 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 
NEWPORT. 

How strange it seems ! These Hebrews 
in their graves. 
Close by the street of this fair seaport 
town. 
Silent beside the never-silent waves, 
At rest in all this moving up and 
down ! 

The trees are white with dust, that o'er 
their sleep 
Wave their broad curtains in the 
south-wind's breath, 
While underneath these leafy tents they 
keep 
The long, mysterious Exodus of 
Death. 

And these sepulchral stones, so old and 
brown. 
That pave with level flags theii' buiial- 
place. 
Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown 
down 
And broken by Moses at the moun- 
tain's base. 

The very names recorded here are 
strange. 
Of foreign accent, and of difl"erent 
climes ; 
Alvares and Rivera interchange 

With Abraham and Jacob of old 
times. 

" Blessed be God! for be created 
Death ! " 
The mourners said, ' ' and Death is 
rest and peace" ; 
Then added, in the certainty of faith, 
"And giveth Life that nevermore 
shall cease." 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 



217 



Closed are the portals of their Syna- 
gogue, 
No Psalms of David now the silence 
break, 
No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 
In the grand dialect the Prophets 
spake. 

Crone are the living, but the dead 
remain. 
And not neglected ; for a hand un- 
seen, 
Scattering its bounty, like a summer 
rain. 
Still keeps their graves and their 
remembrance green. 

How came they here ? What burst of 
Christian hate, 
What persecution, merciless and 
blind. 
Drove o'er the sea — that desert deso- 
late — 
These Ishmaels and Hagars of man- 
kind ? 

They lived in narrow streets and lanes 
obscure, 
Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and 
mire ; 
Taught in the school of patience to 
endure 
The life of anguish and the death of 
fire. 

All their lives long, with the unleavened 
bread 
And bitter herbs of exile and its fears. 
The wasting famine of the heart they 
fed. 
And slaked its thirst with marah of 
their tears. 

Anathema maranatha ! was the cry 
That rang from town to town, from ' 
street to street ; 
At every gate the accursed Mordecai 
Was mocked and jeered, and spurned 
by Christian feet. 

Pride and humiliation hand in hand 
Walked with them through the world 
where'er they went ; 
Trampled and beaten were they as the 
sand. 
And yet unshaken as the continent. 



For in the background figures vague and 
vast 
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose 
sublime, 
And all the great traditions of the Past 
They saw reflected in the coming 
time. 

And thus forever with reverted look 
The mystic volume of the world they 
read, 
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrev* 
book, 
Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be no 
more ! 
The groaning earth in travail and in 
pain 
Brings forth its races, but does not 
restore, 
And the dead nations never rise again. 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still is seen an ancient mill. 

With its gables quaint and queer, 

And beneath the window-sill, 

On the stone. 

These words alone : 

* ' Oliver Basselin lived here. " 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Ruined stands the old Chateau ; 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 
Stare at the skies. 
Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown, 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more. 
From the neighboring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din. 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
Songs that fill 
That ancient miU 
With a splendor of its own. 



218 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Never feeling of unrest 

Brokfe the jjleasant dream he dreamed ; 
Only made to be his nest, 
All the lovely valley seemed ; 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

True, his songs Avere not divine ; 

Were not songs of that high art, 
\Vhich, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each heart ; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 

From the alehouse and the inn. 

Opening on the narrow street. 
Came the loud, convivial din, 
Singing and applause of feet. 
The laughing lays 
That in those days 
Sang the poet Basselin, 

In the castle, cased in steel, 

Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 
Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 
But the poet sang for sport 
Songs that rang 
Another clang. 
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 

In the convent, clad in gray, 

Sat the monks in lonely cells. 
Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray. 
And the ])oet heard their bells ; 
But his rhymes 
Found other chimes, 
Nearer to the earth than they. 

Gone are all the barons bold. 

Gone are all the knights and squires, 
Gone the abbot stern and cold. 
And the brotherhood of friars ; 
Not a name 
Remains to fame. 
From those mouldering days of old ! 

But the poet's memory here 

Of the landscape makes a part ; 
Like the river, swift and clear. 
Flows his song through many a heart ; 
Haunting still 
That ancient mill, 
In the Valley of the Vire. 



VICTOR GALBRAITH, 

Under the walls of Monterey 

At daybreak the bugles began to play, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
In the mist of the morning damp and 

gray, 
These were the words they seemed to say : 

" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith ! " 

Forth he came, with a martial tread ; 
Firm was his step, erect his head ; 

Victor Galbraith, 
He who so Avell the bugle played. 
Could not mistake the words it said ; 

" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith ! " 

He looked at the earth, he looked at the 

sky. 
He looked at the files of musketry, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 
*' Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! " 

Thus challenges death 

Victor Galbraith. 

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and 

red. 
Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 

Victor Galbraith 
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; 
His name was not stamped on those balls 
of lead. 
And they only scath 
Victor Galbraith. 

Three balls are in his breast and brain. 
But he rises out of the dust again, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 
** kill me, and put me out of my pain ! " 

In his agony prayeth 

Victor Galbraith. 

Forth dart once more those tongues of 

flame. 
And the bugler has died a death of shame, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
His soul has gone back to whence it came, 
And no one answers to the name, 

When the Sergeant saith, 

"Victor Galbraith 1" 

Under the walls of Monterey 
By night a bugle is heard to play, 
Victor Galbraith ! 



MY LOST YOUTH. 



219 



Through the mist of the valley damp and 

gray 
The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 

' ' That is the wraith 

Of Victor Galbraith ! " 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautifuJ town 

That is seated by the sea ; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
'* A boy's will is the Avind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

1 can see the shadowy lines of its trees. 

And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas. 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

i remember the black wharves and the 
slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships. 
And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

1 remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
" A boy'? "\11 is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 



And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil 
bay. 
Where they in battle died. 

And the "sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
** A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves. 
The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 
Come back with a sabbath sound, as of 
doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that 
dart 
Across the school-boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart. 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's \dll is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not 
speak ; 
There are dreams that cannot die ; 
There are thoughts that make the strong 

heart weak. 
And bring a pallor into the cheek. 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meei 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet. 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well- 
known street, 
As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, \ong 
thoughts." 



220 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

Aud with joy that is ahnost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that 
were, 
I find my lost youth again. 
And the strange and beautiful song. 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 



THE ROPEWALK. 

In that building, long and low. 
With its windows all a-row. 

Like the port-holes of a hulk. 
Human spiders spin and spin, 
Backward down their threads so thin 

Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 

At the end, an open door ; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 

Light the long and dusky lane ; 
And the whining of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 

All its spokes are in my brain. 

As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 

Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 
While within this brain of mine 
Cobwebs brighter and more fine 

By the busy wheel are spun. 

Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white dov^es upon the wing, 

First before ray vision pass ; 
Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands. 

At their shadow on the grass. 

Then a booth of mountebanks. 
With its smell of tan and planks, 

And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 
With a faded loveliness. 

And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 
And a woman with bare arms 

Drawing water from a well ; 
As the bucket mounts apace. 
With it mounts her own fair face, 

As at some magician's spell. 



Then an old man in a tower, 
Ringing loud the noontide hour, 

While the rope coils round and round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 
And again, in swift retreat, 

Nearly lifts him from the ground. 

Then within a prison-yard. 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 

Laughter and indecent mirth ; 
Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity, 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 

Then a school-boy, with his kite 
Gleaming in a sky of light, 

And an eager, upward look ; 
Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 
Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an angler by a brook. 

Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas. 

Anchors dragged through faithless 
sand ; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead. 
And, with lessening line and lead. 

Sailors feeling for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 
These, and many left untold, 

In that building long and low ; 
While the wheel goes round and round. 
With a drowsy, dreamy sound, 

And the spinners backward go. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

Leafless are the trees ; their purple 

branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of 
coral. 
Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the vil- 
lage. 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story. 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire- 
light ; 

Here and there the lamps of evening 
glimmer. 
Social watch-fires 

Answering one another through the 
darkness. 



CATAWBA WINE. 



221 



On the hearth the lighted logs are glow- 
ing, 

And like Ariel in the cloven jine-tree 
For its freedom 

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in 
them. 

By the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 

Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 

By the firesid e there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair, with stately stair- 
ways, 
Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and com- 
fort. 

Wives and children, with fair, thought- 
ful faces, 
Waiting, watching 

For a well-known footstep in thepassage. 

Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile- 
stone ; 

Is the central point, from which he meas- 
ures 
Every distance 

Through the gateways of the world 
around him. 

In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; 
Hears the talking flame, the answering 
night-wind, 
As he heard them 
When he sat with those who were, but 
are not. 

Happy he whom neither v/ealth nor fash- 
ion, 
Nor the march of the encroaching city. 

Drives an exile 
From the hearth of his ancestral home- 
stead. 

We may build more splendid habitations. 
Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
sculptures, 
But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations ! 



CATAWBA WINE. 

Teis song of mine 

Is a Song of the Vine, 
To be sung by the glowing embers 

Of wayside inns. 

When the rain begins 
To darken the drear Novembers. 

It is not a song 

Of the Scuppernong, 
From warm Carolinian valleys, 

Nor the Isabel 

And the Muscadel 
That bask in our garden alleys. 

Nor the red Mustang, 

Whose clusters hang 
O'er the waves of the Colorado, 

And the fiery flood 

Of whose purple blood 
Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 

For richest and best 

Is the wine of the West, 
That grows by the Beautiful River ; 

Whose sweet perfume 

Fills all the room 
With a benison on the giver. 

And as hollow trees 

Are the haunts of bees. 
Forever going and coming ; 

So this crystal hive 

Is all alive 
With a swarming and buzzing and hum- 
ming. 

Very good in its way 

Is the Verzenay, 
Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 

But Catawba wine 

Has a taste more divine. 
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy 

There grows no vine 

By the haunted Rhine, 
By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape, 

That bears such a grape 
As grows by the Beautiful River. 

Drugged is their juice 

For foreign use, 
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, 

To rack our brains 

With the fever pains, 
That have driven the Old World frantic. 



222 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



To the sewers and sinks 

With all such drinks, 
And after them tumble the mixer ; 

For a poison malign 

Is such Borgia wine, 
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 

While pure as a spring 

Is the wiue I sing, 
And to praise it, one needs but name it ; 

For Catawba wiue 

Has need of no sign, 
No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 

And this Song of the Vine, 

This greeting of mine, - 
The winds and the birds shall deliver 

To the Queen of the West, 

In her garlands dressed, 
On the banks of the Beautiful River. 



SANTA FILOMENA. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought. 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls. 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

Honor to those whose words or deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs. 
And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low ! 

Thus thought T, as by night I read 
Of the great army of the dead. 
The trenches cold and damp. 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain, 

In dreary hospitals of pain, 
The cheerless corridors. 
The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 

A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering gloom, 
And flit from room to room. 

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 



As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went. 
The light shone and was spent. 

On England's annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and song. 
That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past, 

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good, 

Heroic womanhood. 

Kor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear^. 

The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE 
NORTH CAPE. 

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS. 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Trath, 
Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 

Wliich he held in his brown right 
hand. 

His figin-e was tall and stately, 
Like a boy's his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay, 

But threads of a silvery gi'ay 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 
His cheek had the color of oak ; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the King he spoke. 

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
Had a book upon his knees. 

And wrote down the wondrous tale 

Of him who was first to sail 
Into the Arctic seas. 

' ' So far I live to the northward. 

No man lives north of me ; 
To the east are wild mountain-chains. 
And beyond them meres and plains ; 

To the westward all is sea. 



DAYBREAK. 



223 



•So far I live to the northward, 
From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 

If you only sailed by day, 

With a fair wind all the way. 
More than a month would you sail. 

" I own six hundred reindeer, 

With sheep and swine beside ; 
I have tribute from the Finns, 
Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 
And ropes of walrus-hide. 

'* I ploughed the land with horses. 
But my heart was ill at ease, 

For the old seafaring men 

Came to me now and then. 

With their sagas of the seas ; — 

" Of Iceland and of Greenland, 

And the stormy Hebrides, 
And the undiscovered deep ; — 

I could not eat nor sleep 
For. thinking of those seas. 

*' To the northward stretched the desert, 

How far I fain would know ; 
So at last I sallied forth. 
And three days sailed due north, 
As far as the whale-ships go. 

** To the west of me was the ocean, 
To the right the desolate shore, 

But I did not slacken sail 

For the walrus or the whale, 
Till after three days more. 

" The days grew longer and longer, 

Till they became as one, 
And northward through the haze 

1 saw the sullen blaze 

Of the red midnight sun. 

"And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge. 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a wedge. 

"The sea was rough and stormy, 
The tempest howled and wailed, 

And the sea-fog, like a ghost. 

Haunted that dreary coast. 
But onward still I sailed. 

" Four days I steered to eastward, 
Four days without a night : 



Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, King, 
With red and lurid light." 

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 

Ceased writing for a while ; 
And raised his eyes from his book. 
With a strange and puzzled look. 
And an incredulous smile. 

But Othere, the old sea-captain. 
He neither paused nor stirred, 

Till the King listened and then 

Once more took up his pen. 
And wrote down every word. 

" And now the land," said Othere, 
" Bent southward suddenly, 

And I followed the curving shore 

And ever southward bore 
Into a nameless sea. 

* ' And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal ; 

Ha J 't was a noble game ! 

And like the lightning's flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 

" There were six of us all together, 

Norsemen of Helgoland ; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore, 

And dragged them to the strand ! " 

Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 

Suddenly closed his book. 
And lifted his blue eyes. 
With doubt and strange surmise 

Depicted in their look. 

And Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird. 
Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. 

And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth. 
Raising his noble head. 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

*' Behold this walrus-tooth ! " 



DAYBREAK. 

A WIND came up out of the sea. 

And said, " mists, make room for me. 



224 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone. " 

And hurried landward far awaj^ 
Crying, "Awake ! it is the day." 

It said unto the forest, "Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! ' 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, 
And said, " bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, " chanticleer. 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of com, 

" Bow down, and hail the coming mom." 

It shouted through the belfty-tower, 
"Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF 

AGASSIZ. 

May 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 

In the pleasant month of ]\Iay, 
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee. 
Saying : ' ' Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee." 

" Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Into regions yet untrod ; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 

Or his heart began to fail. 
She would sing a more wonderful song, 

Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 
And will not let him go. 



Though at times his heart beats wild 
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, ** Hark 
For his voice I listen and yearn ; 

It is growing late and dark. 
And my boy does not retum ! " 



CHILDREN. 

Come to me, ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed me 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ye open the eastern windows, 
That look towards the sun, 

^Vhere thoughts are singing swallows 
And the brooks of morning run. 



In 



the 



your hearts are the birds and 
sunshine, 
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 

Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind U5 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest. 
With light and air for food, 

Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 



Come to me, ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are sing, 
ing 

In j^our sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 



225 



Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 

For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 



SANDALPHON. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told 

Of the limitless realms of the air. 
Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? 

How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits, 

With his feet on the ladder of light, 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
By Jacob was seen, as lie slumbered 

Alone in the desert at night ? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 

With the song's irresistible stress ; 
Expire in their rapture and wonder. 
As harp-strings are broken asunder 

By music they throb to express. 

But serene in the rapturous throng. 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 
Among the dead angels, the deathless 
Sandalphon stands listening breathless 

To sounds that ascend from below ; — 

From the spirits on earth that adore. 
From the souls that entreat and implore 



In the fervor and passion of prayer ; 
From the hearts that are broken with 

losses. 
And weary with dragging the crosses 

Too heavy for mortals to bear. 

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
And they change into flowers in his 
hands. 
Into garlands of purple and red ; 
And beneath the great arch of the por< 

tal. 
Through the streets of the City Immor- 
tal 
Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 

It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable, a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 
Yet the old mediaeval tradition. 
The beautiful, strange superstition, 

But haunts me and holds me the 



When I look from my window at night, 
And the welkin above is all white, 

All throbbing and panting with 
stars, 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the angel, expanding 

His pinions in nebulous bars. 

And the legend, I feel, is a part 

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, 

The frenzy and fire of the brain. 
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden. 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 

To quiet its fever and pain. 



FLIGHT THE SECOND 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight. 
When the night is beginning to lower. 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the Children's 
Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 
15 



From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair. 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall I 



226 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart. 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away ! 



ENCELADUS. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 

It is slumber, it is not death ; 
For he struggles at times to arise. 
And above him the lurid skies 
Are hot with his fiery breath. 

The crags are piled on his breast. 

The earth is heaped on his head ; 
But the groans of his wild unrest. 
Though smothered and half suppressed. 
Are heard, and he is not dead. 

And the nations far away 

Are watching with eager eyes ; 
They talk together and say, 
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise ! " 

And the old gods, the austere 

Oppressors in their strength. 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear. 
And tremble, and mutter, "At length ! 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 

With the harvest of despair ! 
Where the burning cinders, blown 



From the lips of the overthrown 
Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 

Over vineyard and field and town, 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

'T is the glare of his awful eyes ! 
And the storm-wind shouts through the 

pines 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 

" Enceladus, arise !" 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of- 
war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the 
bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our 
foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her 
guns. 
And leaps the terrible death. 
With fiery breath. 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

"Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
" Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
*' It is better to sink than to yield ! ' 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 



227 



Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death. 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
Still floated our flag at the mainmast 
head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
"Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the 
seas ! 
Ye are af peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these. 
Thy flag, tha 
Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 



' SNOW-FLAKES. 

Oft of the bosom of the Air, 
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments 
shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest- fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expres- 
sion, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair. 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

GIFT of God ! perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play ; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 
Not to be doing, but to be ! 



Through every fibre of my brain. 
Through every nerve, through every vein, 
I feel the electric thrill, the touch 
Of life, that seems almost too much. 

I hear the wind among the trees 
Playing celestial symphonies ; 
I see the branches downward bent, 
Like keys of some great instrument. 

And over me unrolls on high 
The splendid scenery of the sky. 
Where through a sapphire sea the sun 
Sails like a golden galleon. 

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
Its craggy summits white with drifts. 

Blow, winds ! and waft through all the 

rooms 
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms ! 
Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach 
The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 

Life and Love ! happy throng 
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song 1 
heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 



SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 

Labor with what zeal we will. 
Something still remains undone, 

Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 

By the bedside, on the stair. 
At the threshold, near the gates, 

With its menace or its prayer, 
Like a mendicant it waits ; 

Waits, and will not go away ; 

WaitSj and will not be gainsaid ; 
By the cares of yesterday 

Each to-day is heavier made ; 

Till at length the burden seems 
Greater than our strength can bear, 

Heavj'- as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us everywhere. 

And we stand from day to da)% 
Like the dwarfs of times gone by, 

Who, as Northern legends say. 
On their shoulders held the sky. 



2r28 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



WEARINESS. 

LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your 
load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 

Am weary, thinking of your road ! 

little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long. 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
M^ave toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 



little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and 

burned. 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source di 
vine ; 
Refracted through the mist of years. 
How red my setting sun appears. 

How lurid looks this soul of m i n e ! 



FLIGHT THE THIRD 



FATA MORGANA. 

SWEET illusions of Song, 
That tempt me everywhere, 

In the lonely fields, and the throng 
Of the crowded thoroughfare ! 

1 approach, and ye vanish away, 

I grasp you, and ye are gone ; 
But ever by night and by day. 
The melody soundeth on. 

As the weary traveller sees 

In desert or prairie vast. 
Blue lakes, overhung with trees. 

That a pleasant shadow cast ; 

Fair towns with turrets high. 
And shining roofs of gold, 

That vanish as he draws nigh, 
Like mists together rolled, — 

So I wander and wander along. 
And forever before me gleams 

The shining city of song. 

In the beautiful land of dreams. 

But when I would enter the gate 
Of that golden atmosphere. 

It is gone, and I wander and wait 
For the vision to reappear. 



THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 

Each heart has its haunted chamber. 
Where the silent moonbVht falls ! 



On the floor are mysterious footsteps, 
There are whispers along the walls ! 

And mine at times is haunted 

By phantoms of the Past, 
As motionless as shadows 

By the silent moonlight cast. 

A form sits by the window, 

That is not seen b/ day, 
For as soon as the dawn approaches 

It vanishes away. 

It sits there in the moonlight. 

Itself as pale and still. 
And points with its airy finger 

Across the window-sill. 

Without, before the window, 
There stands a gloomy pine, 

Whose boughs wave upward and down- 
ward 
As wave these thoughts of mine. 

And underneath its branches 
Is the gi-ave of a little child. 

Who died upon life's threshold. 
And never wept nor smiled. 

What are ye, pallid phantoms ! 
That haunt my troubled brain ? 
That vanish when day approaches, 
I And at night return again ? 



THE CHALLENGE. 



229 



What are ye, pallid phantoms ! 

But the statues without breath, 
That stand on the bridge overarching 

The silent river of death ? 



THE MEETING. 

After so long an absence 

At last we meet again : 
Does the meeting give us pleasure, 

Or does it give us pain ? 

The tree of life has been shaken, 
And but few of us linger now. 

Like the Prophet's two or three berries 
In the top of the uppermost bough. 

We cordially greet each other 

In the old, familiar tone ; 
And we think, though we do not say it, 

How old and gray he is grown ! 

We speak of a Merry Christmas 
And many a Happy New Year ; 

But each in his heart is thinking 
Of those that are not here. 

We speak of friends and their fortunes. 
And of what they did and said, 

Till the dead alone seem living, 
And the living alone seem dead. 

And at last we hardly distinguish 
Between the ghosts and the guests ; 

And a mist and shadow of sadness 
Steals over our merriest jests. 



VOX POPULI. 

When Mazarvan the Magician, 
Journeyed westward through Cathay, 

Nothing heard he but the praises 
Of Badoura on his way. 

But the lessening rumor ended 
When he came to Khaledan, 

There the folk were talking only 
Of Prince Caniaralzaman. 

So it happens with the poets : 
Every province hath its own; 

Camaralzaman is famous 
Where Badoura is ud known. 



THE CASTLE-BUILDER. 

A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken 
locks, 
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender 
eyes, 
A castle-builder, with his wooden 
blocks. 
And towers that touch imaginary 



A fearless rider on his father's knee, 
An eager listener unto stories told 

At the Round Table of the nursery. 
Of heroes and adventures manifold. 

There will be other towers for thee to 
build ; 
There will be other steeds for thee to 
ride; 
There will be other legends, and aU 
filled 
With greater marvels and more 
glorified. 

Build on, and make thy castles high 
and fair. 
Rising and reaching upward to the 
skies ; 
Listen to voices in the upper air. 

Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. 



CHANGED. 

From the outskirts of the town. 

Where of old the mile-stone stood. 
Now a sti'anger, looking down 
I behold the shadowy crown 
Of the dark and haunted wood. 

Is it changed, or am I changed ? 

Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green, 
But the friends with whom I ranged 
Through their thickets are estranged 

By the years that intervene. 

Bright as ever flows the sea, 

Bright as ever shines the sun, 
But alas ! they seem to me 
Not the sun that used to be. 
Not the tides that used to run. 



THE CHALLENGE. 

I HAVE a vague remembrance 
Of a story, that is told 

In some ancient Spanish legend 
Or chronicle of old. 



230 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



It was when brave King Sanchez 

Was before Zamora slain, 
And his great besieging army 

Lay encamped upon the plain. 

Don Diego de Ordonez 

Sallied forth in front of all, 
And shouted loud his challenge 

To the warders on the wall. 

All the people of Zamora, 

Both the born and the unborn, 

As traitors did he challenge 
With taunting words of scorn. 

The living, in their houses, 
And in their graves, the dead ! 

And the waters of their rivers. 

And their wine, and oil, and bread ! 

There is a greater army. 

That besets us round with strife, 
A starving, numberless army, 

At all the gates of life. 

The poverty-stricken millions 

Who challenge our wine and bread. 

And impeach us all as traitors. 
Both the living and the dead. 

And whenever I sit at the banquet. 
Where the feast and song are high. 

Amid the mirth and the music 
I can hear that fearful cry. 

And hollow and haggard faces 

Look into the lighted hall. 
And wasted hands are extended 

To catch the crumbs that fall. 

For within there is light and pleuty, 

And odors fill the air ; 
But without there is cold and darkness. 

And hunger and despair. 

And there in the camp of famine. 

In wind and cold and rain, 
Christ, the great Lord of the army, 

Lies dead upon the plain ! 



THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. 

The brooklet came from the mountain, 

As sang the bard of old. 
Running with feet of silver 

Over the sands of gold ! 



Far away in the briny ocean 
There rolled a turbulent wave, 

Now singing along the sea-beach, 
Now howling along the cave. 

And the brooklet has found the billow, 
Though they flowed so far apart, 

And has filled with its freshness and 
sweetness 
That turbulent, bitter heart ! 



FROM THE SPANISH CANCIONE- 
ROS. 



Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 
Heart so full of care and cumber, 
I was lapped in rest and slumber. 
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful ! 

In this life of labor endless 
Who shall comfort my distresses ? 
Querulous my soul and friendless 
In its sorrow shuns caresses. 
Ye have made me, ye have made me 
Querulous of you, that care not. 
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not 
Say to what ye have betrayed me. 

2. 

• Some day, some day, 
troubled breast, 
Shalt thou find rest. 

If Love in thee 
To grief give birth. 
Six feet of earth 
Can more than he ; 
There calm and free 
And unoppressed 
Shalt thou find rest. 

The unattained 
In life at last. 
When life is passed. 
Shall all be ^ined ; 
And no more pained. 
No more distressed, 
Shalt thou find rest. 



Come, Death, so silent flying 
That unheard thy coming be. 



EPIMETHEUS. 



231 



Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

For thy sure approach perceiving, 
In my constancy and pain 
I new life should win again, 
Thinking that I am not living. 
So to me, unconscious lying, 
All unknown thy coming be, 
Le^ the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

Unto him who finds thee hateful, 
Death, thou art inhuman pain ; 
But to me, who dying gain, 
Life is but a task ungrateful. 
Come, then, with my wish complying, 
All unheard thy coming be. 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 



Glove of black in white hand bare, 
And about her forehead pale 
Wound a thin, transparent veil. 
That doth not conceal her hair ; 
Sovereign attitude and air. 
Cheek and neck alike displayed. 
With coquettish charms arrayed. 
Laughing eyes and fugitive ; — 
This is killing men that live, 
'T is not mourning for the dead. 

AFTERMATH. 

When the Summer fields are mown. 
When the birds are fledged and flown. 

And the dry leaves strew the path ; 
With the falling of the snow. 
With the cawing of the crow, 
Once again the fields we mow 

And gather in the aftermath. 

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers 
Is this harvesting of ours ; 

Not the upland clover bloom ; 
But the rowen mixed with weeds. 
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, 
Where the poppy drops its seeds 

In the silence and the gloom. 

EPIMETHEUS, 

OR THE poet's AFTERTHOUGHT, 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 
What I saw as' in a vision. 



When to marches hymeneal 
In the land of the Ideal 

Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian ? 

What ! are these the guests whose glances 
Seemed like sunshine gleaming round 
me? 
These the wild, bewildering fancies, 
That with dithyrambic dances 
As with magic circles bound me ? 

Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 

Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! 
Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, 
And from loose, dishevelled tresses 

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 

my songs ! whose winsome measures 
Filled my heart with secret rapture ! 

Children of my golden leisures ! 

Must even your delights and pleasures 
Fade and perish with the capture ? 

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, 

When they came to me unbidden ; 
Voices single, and in chorus, 
Like the wild birds singing o'er us 
In the dark of branches hidden. 

Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 

Must each noble aspiration 
Come at last to this conclusion. 
Jarring discord, wild confusion, 

Lassitude, renunciation ? 

Not with steeper fall nor faster, 
From the sun's serene dominions, 

Not through brighter realms nor vaster, 

In swift ruin and disaster, 
Icarus fell with shattered pinions ) 

Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 

Why did mighty Jove create thee 
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 
Beautiful as young Aurora, 

If to win thee is to hate thee ? 

No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 
Of unrest and long resistance 

Is but passionate appealing, 

A prophetic whisper stealing 
O'er the chords of our existence. 

Him whom thou dost once enamor, 

Thou, beloved, never leavest ; 
In life's discord, strife, and clamor. 
Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest 



232 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 

Struggling souls by thee are strength- 
ened, 
Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 
Trath from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 
Lives, like days in summer, length- 
ened ! 

Therefore art thou ever dearer, 
my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 



For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer, 

When thou tillest my heart with 
fever ! 

Mi.se of all the Gifts and Graces ! 

Though the fields around us wither, 
There are ampler realms and spaces, 
Where no foot has left its traces : • 

Let us turn and wander thither ! 



TALES or A WAYSIDE INK 



PRELUDE. 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 



One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 
Across the meadows bare and brown, 
The windows of the wayside inn 
Gleamed red with fire-light through the 

leaves 
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 
Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 

As ancient is this hostelry 

As any in the land may be, 

Built in the old Colonial day, 

When men lived in a grander way, 

With ampler hospitality ; 

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 

Now somewhat fallen to decay. 

With weather-stains upon the wall, 

And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 

And creaking and uneven floors, 

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 

A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 

Re_Qote among the wooded hills ! 

For there no noisy railway speeds. 

Its torch -race scattering smoke and 

gleeds ; 
But noon and night, the panting teams 
Stop under the great oaks, that throw 
Tangles of light and shade below, 
On roofs and doors and window-sills. 
Across the road the barns display 
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 
Throiigh the wide doors the breezes blow. 
The wattled cocks strut to and fro. 
And, half effaced by rain and shine, 
The Ked Horse prances on the sign. 



Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 
Went rushing down the county road. 
And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 
A moment quickened by its breath. 
Shuddered and danced their dance of 

death, 
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 
Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 

But from the parlor of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 

Like water rushing through a weir : 

Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 

And, in each intervening pause, 

The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 

The splendor of its ruddy glow. 

Filled the whole parlor large and low ; 

It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 

It touched with more than wonted grace 

Fair Princess Mary's pictured face ; 

It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet's ivory keys 

It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 

The hands, the hours, the maker's name, 

And painted mth a livelier red 

The Landlord's coat-of-arms again ; 

And, flashing on the window-pai:e, 

Emblazoned with its light and shade 

The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 

Writ near a century ago, 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 

Before the blazing fire of wood 
Er€ct the rapt musician stood ; 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 



233 



And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument, 
And seemed to listen, till he caught 
Confessions of its secret thought, — 
The joy, the triumph, the lament. 
The exultation and the pain ; 
Then, by the magic of his art, 
He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 
;4nd lulled it into peace again. 

Around the fireside at their ease 
Tliere sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced. 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and 

speech. 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all. 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace ; 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed^nd glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field. 

With three wolfs heads, and for the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred ; below 

The scroll reads, ' ' By the name of 

Howe." 
And over this, no longer bright. 
Though glimmering with a latent light. 
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore 
In the rebellious days of yore, 
Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 
A Student of old books and days, 
To whom all tongues and lands were 

known 
And yet a lover of his own ; 
With many a social virtue graced. 



And yet a friend of solitude ; 

A man of such a genia,l mood 

The heart of all things, he embraced, 

And yet of such fastidious taste, 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and delight, 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome^ 

In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 

Great volumes garmented in white. 

Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that surrounds 

The border-land of old romance ; 

Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance. 

And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 

And ladies ride with hawk on wrist. 

And mighty warriors sweep along. 

Magnified by the purple mist, 

The dusk of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, 

Mingled together in his brain 

With tales of Flores and Blancheflenr, 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 

In sight of Etna born and bred, 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain, 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege. 

Across the western seas he fled. 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night. 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small ; his teeth shone 

white 
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; 
His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 
Clean shaven was he as a priest. 
Who at the mass on Sunday sings. 
Save that upon his upper lip 
His beard, a good palm's length at 

least. 
Level and pointed at the tip. 
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 
The poets read he o'er and o'er, 
And most of all the Immortal Four 
Of Italy ; and next to those. 
The story-telling bard of prose. 
Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 
Of the Decameron, that make 
Fiesole's green hills and vales 
Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 
Much too of music was his thouorht • 



234 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The melodies and measures fraught 

With sunshine and the open air, 

Of vineyards and the singing sea 

Of his beloved Sicily ; 

And much it pleased him to peruse 

The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 

Bucolic songs by Meli sung 

In the familiar peasant tongue, 

That made men say, " Behold ! once 

more 
The pitying gods to earth restore 
Theocritus of Syracuse ! " 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 
With aspect grand and grave was there ; 
Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 
And attar of rose from the Levant. 
Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 
Abraham or Isaac, or at least 
Some later Prophet or High -Priest ; 
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin. 
And, wildly tossed from cheeks and 

chin. 
The tumbling cataract of his beard. 
His garments breathed a spicy scent 
Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 
Like the soft aromatic gales 
That meet the mariner, who sails 
Through the Moluccas, and the seas 
That wash the shores of Celebes. 
All stories that re'corded are 
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart. 
And it was rumored he could say 
The Parables of Sandabar, 
And all the Fables of Pilpay, 
Or if not all, the greater part ! 
Well versed was he in Hebrew books, 
Talmud and Targum, and the lore 
Of Kabala ; and evermore 
There was a mystery in his looks ; 
His eyes seemed gazing far away, 
As if in vision or in trance 
He heard the solemn sackbut play, 
And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there ; 

Skilful alike with tongue and pen. 

He preached to all men everywhere 

The Gospel of the Golden Eule, 

The New Commandment given to men, | 

Thinking the deed, and not the creed, j 

Would help us in our utmost need. ' 

With reverent feet the earth he trod. 

Nor banished nature from his plan, 

But studied still with deep research 

To bnild the Universal Church, I 



Lofty as in the love of God, 
And ample as the wants of man. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 

Was tender, musical, and terse ; 

The inspiration, the delight. 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 

The revelations of a dream. 

All these were his ; but with them caia« 

No envy of another's fame ; 

He did not find his sleep less sweet 

For music in some neighboring street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 

Honor and blessings on his head 

While living, good report when dead. 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown \ 

Last the Musician, as he stood 
Illumined by that fire of wood ; 
Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 
His figure tall and straight and lithe, 
And every feature of his face 
Revealing his Norwegian race ; 
A radiance, streaming from within, 
Around his eyes and forehead beamed, 
The Angel with the violin, 
Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 
He lived in that ideal world 
Whose language is not speech, but song ; 
Around him evermore the throng 
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; 
The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 
Its headlong waters from the height ; 
And mingled in the wild delight 
The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 
The rumor of the forest trees, 
The plunge of the implacable seas. 
The tumult of the wind at night. 
Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 
Old ballads, and wild melodies 
Through mist and darkness pouring 

forth, 
Like Elivagar's river flowing 
Out of the glaciers of the North. 

The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona's workshops made, 
By a great master of the past, 
Ere yet was lost the art divine ; 
Fashioned of maple and of pine, 
That in Tyrolian forests vast 
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : 
Exquisite was it in design, 
Perfect in each minutest part, 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 



235 



A marvel of the lutist's art ; 
And in its hollow chamber, thus. 
The maker from whose hands it came 
Had written his xinrivalled name, — 
*' Antonius Stradivarius. " 

And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound, 
The leaping rivulet backward rolled. 
The birds came down from bush and 

tree, 
The dead came from beneath the sea, 
The maiden to the harper's knee ! 

The music ceased ; the applause was 

loud, 
The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, 
The shadows on the wainscot stirred. 
And from the harpsichord there came 
A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 
A sound like that sent down at night 
By birds of passage in their flight, 
From the remotest distance heard. 

Then silence followed ; then began 
A clamor for the Landlord's tale, — 
The story promised them of old, 
They said, but always left untold ; 
And he, although a bashful man. 
And all his courage seemed to fail. 
Finding excuse of no avail, 
Yielded ; and thus the story ran. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

PAUL REVERE's ride. 

Listen, my children, and you shall 
hear 

Of the midnight ride -of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and 
year. 

He said to his friend, "If the British 

march 
By land or sea from the town to-night. 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal 

light, — 



One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be. 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and 

farm. 
For the country folk to be up and to 

arm." 

Then he said, " Good night I " and with 

muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings 

lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and 

spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar. 
And a huge black hulk, that was 

magnified 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley 

and street. 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of 

feet, 
And the measured tread of the grena- 
diers. 
Marching down to their boats on the 
shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old 

North Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy 

tread. 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their 

perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him 

made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tail- 
To the highest window in the wall. 
Where he paused to listen and look 

down 
A moment on the roofs of the toAvn, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the 

dead. 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's 

tread. 



236 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, "All is well ! " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the 

secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the 

bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of 

boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and 

ride. 
Booted and spui-red, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul 

Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and 

near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle- 
girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager 

The belfry-tower of the Old North 

Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the liill. 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and 

still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's 

height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 

turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his 

sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 

dark, 
And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- 
ing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless 

and fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the 

gloom and the light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that 

night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, 

in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its 

heat. 



He has left the village and mounted 

the steep. 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad 

and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its 



Now soft on the sand, now loud on 

the ledge. 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he 

rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Med- 

ford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog, 
That rises after the sun goes do^vn, 

It was one by the village clock, 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
And the meeting-house windows, blank 

and bare. 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look 

upon. 

It was two by the village clock. 

When he came to the bridge in Concord 

town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock, 
And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning 

breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to 

fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead. 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you 

have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and 

fled,— 
How the farmers gave them ball for 

ball. 
From behind each fence and farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 



THE FALCON OF SEK FEDERIGO. 



23': 



So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
And so through the night went his cry 

of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
A cry of detiance and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 

door, 
And s, word that shall echo forevermore ! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the 

Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 
In the hour of darkness and peril and 

need, 
The people will waken and listen to 

hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 
And the midnight message of Paul 

Revere. 



INTERLUDE. 

The Landlord ended thus his tale, 
Then rising took down from its nail 
The sword that hung there, dim with 

dust. 
And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 
And said, " This sword was in the 

fight." 
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 
" It is the sword of a good knight. 
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail ; 
What matter if it be not named 
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 
Excalibar, or Aroundight, 
Or other name the books record ? 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare. 
Seen here and there and everywhere. 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not. 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
'i.nd on his head an iron pot ! " 

All laughed ; the Landlord's face grew 

red 
As his escutcheon on the wall ; 
He could not comprehend at all 
The drift of what the Poet said ; 
For those who had been longest dead 
Were always greatest in his eyes ; 
And he was speechless with surprise 
To see Sir William's plumed head 
Brought to a level with the rest, 
And made the subject of a jest. 



And this perceiving, to appease 

The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 

The Student said, with careless ease, 

" The ladies and the cavaliers. 

The arms, the loves, the courtesies. 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 

That have the stately stride and ring 

Of armed knights and clashing swords. 

Now listen to the tale I bring ; 

Listen ! though not to me belong 

The flowing draperies of his song. 

The words that rouse, the voice that 

charms. 
The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 
Onl}^ a tale of love is mine, 
Blending the human and diWne, 
A tale of the Decameron, told 
In Palmieri's garden old, 
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned. 
While her companions lay around. 
And heard the intermingled sound 
Of airs that on their errands sped. 
And wild birds gossiping overhead, 
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall. 
And her own voice more sweet than 

all, 
Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 
Perchance may lose its power to please." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 

One summer morning, when the sun 
was hot. 

Weary with labor in his garden-plot, 

On a rude bench beneath his cottage 
eaves, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms out- 
spread. 

Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 

Below him, through the lovely valley 
flowed 

The river Arno, like a winding road. 

And from its banks were lifted high in 
air 

The spires and roofs of Florence called 
the Fair ; 

To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried love. 

For there, in banquet and in tourna- 
ment. 

His wealth had lavished been, his sub- 
stance spent, 



238 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



To woo and lose, since ill his wooing 

sped, 
Monna Giovanua, who his rival wed, 
Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme. 
The ideal woman of a young man's 

dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and. pain. 
To this small farm, the last of his do- 
main. 
His only comfort and his only care 
To prune his vines, and plant the fig 

and pear ; 
His only forester and only guest 
His falcon, faithful to him, when the 

rest, 
Whose willing hands had found so light 

of yore 
The brazen knocker of his palace door. 
Had now no strength to lift the wooden 

latch. 
That entrance gave beneath a roof of 

thatch. 
Companion of his solitary ways, 
Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 
On him this melancholy man bestowed 
The love with which his nature over- 
flowed. 

And so the empty-handed years went 

round. 
Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic 

sound, 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and 

mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was 

used, 
And dreamily before his half-closed sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy 

bird 
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slum- 
ber heard 
The sudden, scytne-like sweep of wings, 

that dare 
The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs 

of air. 
Then, starting broad awake upon his 

perch. 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a 

church. 
And, looking at his master, seemed to 

say, 
" Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? " 

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 
The tender vision of her lovely face. 



I will not say he seems to see, he sees 
In the leaf-shadows of the trellises. 
Herself, yet not herself ; a lovely child 
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and 

wild. 
Coming undaunted up the garden walk, 
And looking not at him, but at the 

hawk. 
" Beautiful falcon ! " said he, "would 

that I 
Might hold thee on my wrist, or see 

thee fly ! " 
The voice was hers, and made strange 

echoes start 
Through all the haunted chambers of 

his heart. 
As an seolian harp through gusty doors 
Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

" Who is thy mother, my fair boy ? " he 

said. 
His hand laid softly on that shining 

head. 
" Monna Giovanna. Will you let me 

stay 
A little while, and with your falcon 

play ? 
We live there, just beyond your garden 

wall. 
In the great house behind the poplars 

tall." 

So he spake on ; and Federigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word,' 
And drifted onward through the golden 

gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, 
As mariners becalmed through vapon 

drift. 
And feel the sea beneath them sink and 

lift. 
And hear far ofi" the mournful breakers 

roar. 
And voices calling faintly from tlie 

shore ! 
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries 
He took the little boy upon his knees. 
And told him stories of his gallant bird, 
Till in their friendship he became a 

third. 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 
Had come with friends to pass the sum- 
mer time 
In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
O'erlooking Florence, but retired and 
still; 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 



239 



With iron gates, that opened through 

long lines 
Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, 
A.nd terraced gardens, and broad steps 

of stone, 
And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, 
And fountains palpitating in the heat, 
And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath 

its feet. 
Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 
The lovely lady whiled the hours away, 
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, 
Herself the stateliest statue among all. 
And seeing more and more, with secret 

joy, 

Her husband risen and living in her boy. 
Till the lost sense of life returned again. 
Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his 

strength. 
Stormed down the terraces from length 

to length ; 
The screaming peacock chased in hot 

pursuit. 
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
But his chief pastime was to watch the 

flight 
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden 

wall, 
Then downward stooping at some distant 

call ; 
And as he gazed full often wondered he 
Who might the master of the falcon be, 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 

And now a shadow and a terror fell 
On the great house, as if a passing-bell 
Tolled from the tower, and filled each 

spacious room 
With secret awe, and preternatural 

gloom ; 
The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 
Pined with mysterious malady away. 
The mother's heart would not be com- 
forted ; 
Her darlhig seemed to her already dead. 
And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, 
" What can I do to comfort thee ? " she 

cried. 
At first the silent lips made no reply. 
But, moved at length by her importu- 
nate cry, 
"Give me," he answered, with implor- 
ing tone, 
" Ser Federigo's falcon for my ovm ! " 



No answer could the astonished mother 
make ; 

How could she ask, e'en for her darling's 
sake, 

Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, 

Well knowing that to ask was to com- 
mand ? 

Well knowing, what all falconers con- 
fessed, 

In all the land that falcon was the best. 

The master's piide and passion and 
delight. 

And the sole pursuivant of this poor 
knight. 

But yet, for her child's sake, she could 
no less 

Than give assent, to soothe his restless- 
ness. 

So promised, and then promising to keep 

Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 

The morrow was a bright September morn ; 

The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 

There was that nameless splendor every- 
where, 

That wild exhilaration in the air. 

Which makes the passers in the city 
street 

Congratulate each other as they meet. 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and 
hood, 

Passed through the garden gate into thrt 
wood. 

Under the lustrous leaves, and through 
the sheen 

Of dewy sunshine showering down be- 
tween. 

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive 

grace 
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's 

face ; 
Her dark eyes moistened with the mists 

that roll 
From the gulf-stream of passion in the 

soul ; 
The other with her hood thrown back, 

her hair 
Making a golden glory in the air, 
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral 

blush, 
Her young heart singing louder than the 

thrush. 
So walked, that mora, through mingled 

light and shade. 
Each by the other's presence lovelier 

made. 



240 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, 
Intent upon their errand and its end. 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 
Like banished Adam, delving in the soil ; 
And when he looked and these fair wo- 
men spied. 
The garden suddenly was glorified ; 
His long-lost Eden was restored again, 
And the strange river winding through 

the plain 
No longer Mas the Arno to his eyes, 
But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 
And with fair words of salutation said : 
*' Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 
Hoping in this to make some poor amends 
For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 
Would even cross the threshold of your 

door, 
I who in happier days such pride main- 
tained, 
Refused your banquets, and your gifts 

disdained. 
This morning come, a self-invited guest. 
To put your generous nature to the test, 
And breakfast with you under your own 

vine." 
To which he answered : ** Poor desert of 

mine, 
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 
Is good in me of feeling or of thought, 
From you it comes, and this last grace 

outweighs 
All sorrows, all regi-ets of other days." 

And after further compliment and talk, 
Among the asters in the garden walk 
He left his guests ; and to his cottage 
! turned. 

And as he entered for a moment yearned 
For the lost splendors of the days of old. 
The ruby glass, the silver and the gold. 
And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, 
By want embittered and intensified. 
He looked about him for some means or 

way 
To keep this unexpected holiday ; 
Searched every cupboard, and then 

searched again, 
Summoned the maid, who came, but 

came in vain ; 
** The Signor did not hunt to-day," she 

said, 
" There 's nothing in the house but wine 

and bread. 



Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 
His little bells, with that sagacious look, 
AVhich said, as plain as language to the 

ear, 
" If anything is wanting, I am here ! " 
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 
The master seized thee without further 

word. 
Like thine own lure, he whirled thee 

round ; ah me ! 
The pomp and flutter of brave falconry. 
The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet 

hood, 
The flight and the pursuit o'er field and 

wood, 
All these forevemiore are ended now ; 
No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 

Then on the board a snow-white cloth 
he spread. 

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, 

Brought purple grapes with autumn sun- 
shine hot, 

The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot ; 

Til en in the midst a flask of wine he 
placed. 

And with autumnal flowers the banquet 
graced. 

Ser Federigo, would not these suflSce 

Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves 
and spice ? 

When all was ready, and the courtly 

dame 
With her companion to the cottage came, 
Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 
The wild enchantment of a magic spell ! 
The room they entered, mean and low 

and small, 
Was changed into a sumptuous banquet- 
hall, 
With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 
The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 
He ate celestial food, and a divine 
Flavor was given to his country wine, 
And the poor falcon, fragrant with his 

spice, 
A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 

When the repast was ended, they arose 
And passed again into the garden-close. 
Then said the lady, ' ' Far too well I 

know. 
Remembering still the days of long ago. 
Though you betray it not, with what 

surprise 
You see me here in this familiar wise. 



INTERLUDE. 



241 



You have no children, and you cannot 

guess 
What anguish, what unspeakable dis- 
tress 
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, 
Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 
And yet for this, you see me lay aside 
All womanly reserve and check of pride. 
And ask the thing most precious in your 

sight, 
Yo'ur falcon, your sole comfort and de- 
light. 
Which if you find it in your heart to give, 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may 
live." 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, / 

With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 
" Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 
So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. 
One little hour ago, if I had known 
This wish of yours, it would have been 

my own. 
But thinking in what manner I could 

best 
Do honor to the presence of my guest, 
I deemed that nothing worthier could be 
Than what most dear and precious was 

to me, 
And so my gallant falcon breathed his 

last 
To furnish forth this morning our repast. " 

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay. 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away. 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should 

make. 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride. 
That nothing she could ask for was 

denied ; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at 

the gate 
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing- 
bell 

Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; 

Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, 

Breathing a prayer, " Alas ! her child is 
dead ! " 

Three months went by ; and lo ! a mer- 
rier chime 

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas 
time ; 

The cottage was deserted, and no more 

Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 
16 



But now, with servitors to do his will, 
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, 
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, 
Enthroned once more in the old rustic 

chair. 
High-perched upon the back of which 

there stood 
The image of a falcon carved in wood, 
And underneath the inscription, with 

date, 
'* All things come round to him who will 

but wait." 



INTERLUDE. 

Soon as the story reached its aid, 
One, over eager to commend. 
Crowned it Avith injudicious praise ; 
And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head ; 

" These old Italian tales," he said, 

' ' From the much - praised Decameron 

down 
Through all the rabble of the rest. 
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd ; 
The gossip of a neighborhood 
In some remote provincial town, 
A scandalous chronicle at best ! 
They seem to me a stagnant fen, 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
AVhere a white lily, now and then. 
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks." 

To this the Student straight replied, 

' ' For the white lily, many thanks ! 

One should not say, with too much pride, 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 

Nor were it grateful to forget, 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakespeare drew 

His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy. " 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 
" An Angel is flying overhead ! " 
At these \v'ords spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath : 
' ' God grant, if what you say be true, 
It may not be the Angel of Death ! " 



242 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And then another pause ; and then, 

Stroking his beard, he said again : 

*' This brings back to my memory 

A story in the Talmud told, 

That book of gems, that book of gold. 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes io me. 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 

And never wearies nor grows old. " 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 
A volume of the Law, in which it said, 
* ' No man shall look upon my face and 

live." 
And as he read, he prayed that God 

would give 
His faithful servant grace with mortal 

eye 
To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page. 
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with 

age, 
He saw the Angel of Death before him 

stand, 
Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man. 
Yet through his veins a chill of terror 

ran. 
With trembling voice he said, "What 

■wilt thou here ? " 
The angel answered, "Lo! the time 

draws near 
When thou must die ; yet first, by God's 

decree, 
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted 

thee." 
Replied the Rabbi, *' Let these living 

eyes 
First look upon ray place in Paradise." 

Then said the Angel, " Come M'ith me 

and look." 
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book. 
And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 
•' Give me thy sword, " he to the Angel 

said, 
' ' Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the 

way." 
The angel smiled and hastened to obey, 
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 
And set him on the wall, whence, gaaing 

down. 



Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, 
Might look upon his place in Paradise. 

Then straight into the city of the Lord 
The Rabbi leaped with the Death- Angel's 

sword. 
And through the streets there swept a 

sudden breath 
Of something there unknown, which men 

call death. 
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, 

and cried, 
" Come back ! " To which the Rabbi's 

voice replied, 
"No! in the name of God, whom 1 

adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart no 

more ! " 

Then all the Angels cried, ** Holy One, 

See what the son of Levi here hath dane ! 
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by 

violence. 
And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 
The Lord replied, " My Angels, be not 

wroth ; 
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath ? 
Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 
Shall look upon my face and yet not die. " 

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death 
Heard the gi-eat voice, and said, with 

panting breath, 
" Give back the sword, and let me go 

my way." 
Whereat the Rabbi paused, andanswered, 

"Nay! 
Anguish enough already hath it caused 
Among the sons of men." And while 

he paused 
He heard the awful mandate of the 

Lord 
Resounding through the air, " Give back" 

the sword ! " 

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent 

prayer ; 
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, 

** Swear, 
No human eye shall look on it again ; 
But when thou takest away the souls of 

men. 
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen 

sword, 
Thou wilt perform the bidding of tlia 

Lord." 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 



243 



The Angel took the sword again, and 

swore, 
And walks on earth unseen forevermore. 



INTERLUDE. 

He ended : and a kind of spell 
I Upon the silent listeners fell. 
His solemn manner and his words 
Had touched the deep, mysterious 

chords, 
That vibrate in each human breast 
Alike, but not alike confessed. 
The spiritual world seemed near ; 
And close above them, full of fear. 
Its awful adumbration passed, 
A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 
They almost feared to look, lest there, 
Embodied from the impalpable air. 
They might behold the Angel stand. 
Holding the sword in his right hand. 

At last, but in a voice subdued, 

Not to disturb their dreamy mood. 

Said the Sicilian : " While you spoke, 

Telling your legend marvellous. 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us, — 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

The legend of an Angel told, 

Which ran, as I remember, thus." 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Ur- 
bane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
.Apparelled in magnificent attire. 
With retinue of many a knight and 

squire, 
On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly 

sat 
And heard the priests chant the Mag- 
nificat. 
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 
He caught the words, ' ' Deposuit poten- 

ies 
De sede, et exaltavit humiles " ; 
And slowly lifting up his kingly head 
to a learned clerk beside him said. 



" What mean these words ? " The clerk 

made answer meet, 
* ' He has put down the mighty from 

their seat, 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
** 'T is well that such seditious words are 

sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
For unto priests and people be it known, 
There is no power can push me from my 

throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell 

asleep. 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and 

deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 
The church was empty, and there was no 

light, 
Save where the lamps, that glimmered 

few and faint, 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed 

around. 
But saw no living thing and heard no 

sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it waa 

locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then 

knocked, 
And uttered awful threatenings and com- 
plaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints 
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and 

walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their 

stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from 

without 
The tumult of the knocking and the 

shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house 

of prayer. 
Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is 

there ? " 
Half choked with rage. King Robert 

fiercely said, 
** Open ; 't is I, the King ! Art thou 

afraid ? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with 

a curse, 
"This is some drunken vagabond, or 

worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the por- 
tal wide ; 



244 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or 

cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, 

nor spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the 

night. 
And vanished like a spectre from his 

sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 

Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent 
with mire. 

With sense of wrong and outrage desper- 
ate, 

Strode on and thundered at the palace 
gate ; 

Rushed through the courtyard, thrust- 
ing in his rage 

To right and left each seneschal and 
page, 

And hurried up the broad and sounding 
stair, 

His white face ghastly in the torches' 
glare. 

From hall to hall he passed with breath- 
less speed ; 

Voices and cries he heard, but did not 
heed, 

Until at last he reached the banquet- 
room, 

Blazing with light, and breathing with 
perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king, 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet- 
ring, 
King Robert's self in features, form, and 

height. 
But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
It was an Angel ; and his jiresence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise. 
Though none the hidden Angel recognize. 

A moment speechless, motionless, 

amazed, 
The throneless monarch on the Angel 

gazed. 
Who met his look of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 
Then said, " Who art thou ? and why 

com'st thou here ? " 
To which King Robert answered, with a 

sneer, 



" I am the King, and come to claim my own 

Fr.Ji an impostor, who usurps my 
throne ! " 

And suddenly, at these audacious words, 

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew 
their swords ; 

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 

' ' Nay, not the King, but the King's Jes- 
ter, thou 

Henceforth shall wear the bells and 
scalloped cape. 

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 

Thou shalt obey my servants when they 
call, 

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries 
and prayers. 

They thrust him from the hall and down 
the stairs ; 

A group of tittering pages ran before, 

And as they opened wide the folding- 
door. 

His heart failed, for he heard, with 
strange alarms. 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at- 
arms. 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 

With the mock plaudits of " Long live 
the King ! " 

Next morning, waking Avith the days 

first beam. 
He said within himself, "It was a 

dream ! " 
But the straw rustled as he turned }iis 

head. 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed. 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in 

their stalls. 
And in the corner, a revolting shape. 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretch 

ed ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so 

much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his 

touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned 
again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 

Under the Angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and 
wine. 

And deep within the mountain's burn- 
ing breast 

Ence^adus, the giant, was at rest. 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 



245 



Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his 

fate, 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters 

wear, 
With look bewildered and a vacant stare, 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks 

are shorn, 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed 

to scorn, 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsub- 
dued. 
And when the Angel met him on his way. 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would 

say. 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might 

feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
"Art thou the King ? " the passion of 

his woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And, lifting high his forehead, he would 

fling 
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am 

the King ! " 

Almost three years were ended ; when 

there came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope 

Urbane 
By letter summoned them forthwith to 

come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
The Angel with great joy received his 

guests, 
And gave them presents of embroidered 

vests. 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine 

lined. 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent 

made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 
• _ and the stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock 

state, 
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling 

gait, 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 



The solemn ape demurely perched be- 
hind, 

King Robert rode, making huge merri- 
ment 

In all the country towns through which 
they went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp 

and blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's 

square. 
Giving his benediction and embrace. 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with 

prayers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the 

crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried 

aloud, 
" I am the King ! Look, and behold in 

me 
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 
This man, who wears my semblance to 

your eyes. 
Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 
Do you not know me ? does no voice 

within 
Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 
The Pope in silence, but with troubled 

mien, 
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is 

strange sport 
To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! " 
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went by, 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the 

sky; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light. 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright. 
And with new fervor filled the heartr 

of men, 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen 

again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw. 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splen- 
dor saw. 
He felt within a powtr unfelt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber 

floor. 
He heard the rushing garments of the 

Lord 
Sweep through the silent air, ascending 

heavenward. 



246 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And now tlie visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's 

shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and 

again 
The land was made resplendent with his 

train, 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's 

wall, 
And, seated on the throne in his great 

hall, 
He heard the Angelus from convent 

towers, 
As if the better world conversed with 

ours, 
He beckoned to King Robert to draw 

nigher. 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 
And when they were alone, the Angel 

said, 
"Art thou the King?" Then, bowing 

down his head, 
King Robert crossed both hands upon 

his breast, 
And meekly answered him: "Thou 

knowest best ! 
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of peni- 
tence, 
Across those stones, that pave the way 

to heaven, 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be 

shriven ! " 

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant 

face 
A holy light illumined all the place, 
And through the open window, loud and 

clear, 
They heard the monks chant in the 

chapel near. 
Above the stir and tumult of the street : 
'* He has put down the mighty from 

their seat. 
And has exalted them of low degree ! " 
And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 
" I am an Angel, and thou art the King !" 

King Robert, who was standing near the 1 

throne. 
Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 
But all apparelled as in days of old. 
With ermined mantle and with cloth of 

gold; 



And when his courtiers came, they found 

him there 
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in 

silent prayer. 



INTERLUDE. 

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 
A Saga of the days of old. 
" There is," said he, "a wondrous book 
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue. 
Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 
Legends that once were told or sung 
In many a smoky fireside nook 
Of Iceland, in the ancient day. 
By wandering Saga-man or Scald ; 
Hein)skringla is the volume called ; 
And he who looks may find therein 
The story that I now begin." 

And in each pause the story made 

Upon his violin he played, 

As an appropriate interlude. 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate runes, 

And held the mind in perfect mood, 

Entwining and encircling all 

The strange and antiquated rhymes 

With melodies of olden times ; 

As over some half- ruined wall. 

Disjointed and about to fall. 

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, 

And keep the loosened stones in place, 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 

I. 
THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 

I AM the God Thor, 
I am the War God, 
I am the Thunderer ! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Reign I forever ! 

Here amid icebergs 
Rule I the nations ; 
This is my hammer, 
Miolner the mighty ; 
Giants and sorcerers 
Cannot withstand it ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



247 



These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off ; 
This is my girdle ; 
Whenever 1 brace it, 
Strength is redoubled ! 

The light thou beh oldest 
Stream through the heavens, 
In flashes of crimson, 
Is but my red beard 
Blown by the night-wind. 
Affrighting the nations ! 

Jove is my brother ; 
Mine eyes are the lightning ; 
The wheels of my chariot 
Roll in the thunder. 
The blows of my hammer 
Eing in the earthquake ! 

Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it ; 
Meekness is weakness. 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 
Still is it Thor's-Day ! 

Thou art a God too, 
Galilean ! 

And thus single-handed 
Unto the combat, 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 
Here I defy thee ! 



KING OLAF S RETURN. 

And King Olaf heard the cry. 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword. 
As he leaned upon the railing. 
And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 

There he stood as one who dreamed ; 
And the red light glanced and gleamed 

On the armor that he wore ; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

* ' I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 

To avenge his fatlier slain. 
And reconquer realm and reign, 
Came the youthful Olaf home. 
Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 



Listening to the wild wind's wailing. 
And the dashing of the foam. 

To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came. 

And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and morasses. 

To the home of Hakon old. 

Then strange memories crowded back 
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea ; 
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 
Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 

How a stranger watched his face 
In the Esthonian market-place. 

Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, " We should know each other ; 
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother. 

Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son ! " 

Then as Queen Allogia's page. 
Old in honors, young in age, 

Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 
Till vague whispers, and mysterious. 
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 

Filling him with strange alarms. 

Then his cruisings o'er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides, 

And to Scilly's rocky shore ; 
And the hermit's cavern dismal, 
Christ's great name and rites baptismal 

In the ocean's rush and roar. 

All these thoughts of love and strife 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 

As the stars' intenser light 
Through the red flames o'er hira trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing, 

Northward in the summer night. 

Trained for either camp or court. 
Skilful in each manly sport. 

Young and beautiful and tall ; 
Art of warfai-e, craft of chases, 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races. 

Excellent alike in all. 

When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 

Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 
And his shining shield suspended 

On its summit, like a sun. 



248 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 

And at once two javelins throw ; 
At all feasts where ale Avas strongest 
Sat the merry monarch longest, 

First to come and last to go. 

Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 

One so royal in attire, 
When in arms completely furnished. 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 

Mantle like a flame of lire. 

Thus came Olaf to his own, 
A\Tien upon the night-Avind blown 

Passed that cry along the shore ; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 

'* I accept thy challenge, Thor ! ' 



THORA OF EIMOL. 

*' Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 

Danger and shame and death betide me ! 

For Olaf the King is hunting me down 

Through field and forest, through thorp 
and town ! " 
Thus cried Jarl Hakou 
To Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 
Neither shall shame nor death come 

near thee ! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou must 

lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine in the 
sty." 
Thus to Jarl Hakon 
Said Thora, the fairest of women. 

So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 
Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon 

darker. 
As Olaf came riding, Avith men in mail. 
Through the forest roads into Orkadale, 
Demanding Jarl Hakon 
Of Thora, the fairest of women. 

" Rich and honored shall be whoever 
The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever ! " 
Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave. 
Through the breathing-holes of the dark- 
some cave. 

Alone in her chamber 

Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 



Said Karker, the crafty, ** I will not slay 

thee ! 
For all the king's gold I will never betray 

thee ! " 
"Then why dost thou turn so pale, 

churl, 
And then again black as the earth ? " said 

the Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of women. 

From a dream in the night the thrall 

started, saying, 
" Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf 

was laying ! " 
And Hakon answered, "Beware of the 

king ! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood-red 

ring." 
At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 

At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows 

encumbered. 
But screamed and drew up his feet as he 

slumbered ; 
The thrall in the darkness plunged with 

his knife. 
And the Earl awakened no more in this 

life. 
But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 

At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are 

swinging ; 
One is Jaii Hakon's and one is his 

thrall's. 
And the people are shouting from win- 
doAvs and Avails ; 
While alone in her chamber 
Savoous Thora, the fairest of Avomen. 



QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud 

and aloft 
In her chamber, that looked oA^er meadow 
and croft. 
Heart's dearest. 
Why dost thou sorroAV so ? 

The floor Avith tassels of fir was besprent. 
Filling the room Avith their fragrant 
Bcent. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



249 



She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun 

shine, 
The air of summer was sweeter than wine. 

Like a sword without scabbard the bright 

river lay 
Betweenher own kingdom and Norroway. 

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand. 
The sword would be sheathed, the river 
be spanned. 

Her maidens were seated around her 

knee. 
Working bright figures in tapestry. 

And one was singing the ancient rune 
Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of 
Gudrun. 

And through it, and round it, and over 

it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 

The Queen in her hand held a ring of 

gold, 
From the door of Lade's Temple old. 

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, 
But her thoughts as arrows were keen 
and swift. 

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths 

twain. 
Who smiled, as they handed it back 

again. 

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, 
Said, "Why do you smile, my gold- 
smiths, say ? " 

And they answered : " Queen ! if the 

truth must be told, 
The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! " 

The lightning flashed o'er her forehead 

and cheek. 
She only murmured, she did not speak : 

*' If in his gifts he can faithless be. 
There will be no gold in his love to me." 

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, 
And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 

He kissed the Queen's hand, and he 

whispered of love, 
And swore to be true as the stars are 

above. 



But she smiled with contempt as she 
answered : " King, 

Will you swear it, as Odin once swore., 
on the ring ? " 

And the King : "0 speak not of Odin 

to me, 
Tlie wife of King Olaf a Christian must 

be." 

Looking straight at the King, with her 

level brows, 
She said, ' ' I keep true to my faith and 

my vows." 

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened 

with gloom. 
He rose in his anger and strode through 

the room. 

"Why, then, should I care to have 

thee ? " he said, — 
"A faded old woman, a heathenish 

jade ! " 

His zeal was stronger than fear or love. 
And he struck the Queen in the face witli 
his glove. 

Then forth from the chamber in anger he 

fled, 
And the wooden stairway shook with his 

tread. 

Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under 

her breath, 
" This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy 
death ! " 
Heart's dearest, 
Why dost thou sorrow so ? 



V. 



THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 

Now from all King Olaf's farms 

His men-at-arms 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 
To his house at Angvalds-ness 

Fast they press, 
Drinking witli the royal feaster. 

Loudly through the wdde-flung door 

Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 
And its thunder loud and near 

Eeached the ear. 
Mingling with their voices merry. 



250 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



" Hark ! " said Olaf to his Scald, 

Halfred the Bald, 
" Listen to that song, and learn it ! 
Half my kingdom would I give, 

As I live, 
If by such songs you would earn it ! 

'* For of all the runes and rhymes 

Of all times, 
Best I like the ocean's dirges, 
When the old harper heaves and rocks. 

His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the surges ! " 

Halfred answered : *' I am called 

The Unappalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, King, 

While I sing 
The great Ocean Song that haunts me." 

" I will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires ; each laughing guest 

Applauds the jest ; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and doM-n the yard. 

King Olaf's guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er the sands, and up the hill, 

Gathering still 
Round the house where they were 
sleeping. 

It was not the fog he saw, 

Nor misty flaw, 
That above the landscape brooded ; 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 

Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 
The Easter sun 

Streamed with one broad track of splen- 
dor ! 

In their real forms appeared 
The warlocks weird, 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 



Blinded by the light that glared, 
They groped and stared 

Round about with steps unsteady ; 

From his window Olaf gazed. 
And, amazed, 

"Who are these strange people?" said 
he. 

" Eyvind Kallda and his men ! " 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer ; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place. 
Busily buckling on their armor. 

From the gates they sallied forth. 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band. 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the king again 

Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

Tlie sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened ; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on ; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

"Sing, Scald, j^our song sublime, 

Your ocean-rhyme," 
Cried King Olaf : "it will cheer me ! " 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 

"The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me ! " 



THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was 

strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long ; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and 

din ; 
A blast of cold night-air came in, 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



251 



And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, "0 graybeard 

pale ! 
Come warm thee with this cnp of ale." 
The fo»aming draught the old man 

quaffed, 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : "Be not afraid ; 
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed, 
And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o'er, 
The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 
'*'T is late, King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired ; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest ; 
The lights were out, the pages gone. 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their deeds. 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old. 
With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

"Do we not learn from runes and 

rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech ? " 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 
" Thy lore is by thy tongue belied ; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, " Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, King ! 't is time for 



Then slept the King, and when he woke 

The guest was gone, the morning broke. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang 

They found the doors securely barred. 
They found the watch-dog in the yard, 
There was no footprint in the grass. 
And none had seen the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang' 

King Olaf crossed himself and said : 
" I know that Odin the Great is dead ; 
Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 
The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang 



VII. 
IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 
Sending his signal through the land ot 
Drontheim. 

And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and near. 
With their war weapons ready to confront 
him. 

Ploughing under the morning star. 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling with a 
low laugh. 

He wiped the sweat-drops from his 

brow, 
Unharnessed his horses from the 

plough. 
And clattering came on horseback to 

King Olaf. 

He was the churliest ot the churls ; 
Little he cared for king or earls ; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foam- 
ing passions. 

Hodden -gray was the garb he wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he 
swore ; 
He hated the narrow town, and all its 
fashions. 

But he loved the freedom of his 

farm. 
His ale at night, by the fireside 

warm, 
Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen 

tresses. 



252 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



He loved his horses and his herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the song 

of birds. 
His well-filled barns, his brook with its 

water- cresses. 

Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 
His beard, from which he took his 

name, 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the 

Giant. 

So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, 

The farmer of Yriar, Iron- Beard, 

On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 

And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 
Out of the middle of the crowd. 
That tossed about him like a stormy 
ocean : 

" Such sacrifices shalt thou bring ; 
To Odin and to Thor, King, 
As other kings have done in their devo- 
tion ! " 

King Olaf answered : " I command 
This land to be a Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk bap- 
tizes ! 

" But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with gore, 
Then will 1 offer human sacrifices ! 

" Not slaves and peasants shall they 

be. 
But men of note and high degree. 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of 

Gryting ! " 

Then to their Temple strode he in. 
And loud behind him heard the din 
Of his men-at-arms and the peasants 
fiercely fighting. 

There in the Temple, carved in wood. 
The image of great Odin stood. 
And other gods, with Thor supreme 
among them. 

King Olaf smote them with the 

blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid. 
And downward shattered to the pavement 

flung them. 



At the same moment rose without, 
From the contending crowd, a shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and of waiL 
ing. 

And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the 
assailing. 

King Olaf from the doorway spoke 
*' Choose ye between two things, mv 
folk, 
To be baptized or given up to slaughter ! " 

And seeing their leader stark and 

dead. 
The people with a murmur said, 
* ' King, baptize us tvith thy holy 
water " ; 

So all the Drontheim land became 
A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and 
trusting. 

And as a blood- atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheinr 
Hus-Ting ! 



VIII. 



/ 



On King Olaf's bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light, 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 

At the fatal midnight hour. 
When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast, 
Something in her hand is pressed* 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 

On the cairn are fixed her eyes 
Where her murdered father lies. 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 

What a bridal night is this ! 
Cold will be the dagger's kiss ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



253 



Laden with the chill of death 
Is its breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps ; 
Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 
His eyes meet hers. 

•« What is that," King Olaf said, 
** Gleams so bright above thy head ? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? " 

" ' T is the bodkin that I wear 
When at night I bind my hair ; 
It woke me falling on the floor ; 
'T is nothing more." 

" Forests have ears, and fields have eyes 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair ! 
Gudrun beware ! " 

Ere the earliest peep of morn 
Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn ; 
And forever sundered ride 
Bridegroom and bride ! 



THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 

Short of stature, large of limb. 

Burly face and russet beard. 
All the women stared at him, 
When in Iceland he appeared. 
*' Look ! " they said, 
With nodding head, 
" There goes Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 

All the prayers he knew by rote, 

He could preach like Chrysostome, 
From the Fathers he could quote. 
He had even been at Rome. 
A learned clerk, 
A man of mark, 
(,Vas this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

He was quarrelsome and loud, 

And impatient of control. 
Boisterous in the market crowd. 
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would drink and swear. 
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest 



In his house this malcontent 

Could the King no longer bear, 
So to Iceland he was sent 
To convert the heathen there, 
And away 
One summer day 
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

There in Iceland, o'er their books 
Pored the people day and night, 
But he did not like their looks, 
Nor the songs they used to write. 
"All this rhyme 
Is waste of time ! " 
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

To the alehouse, where he sat, 

Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 
Is it to be wondered at. 

That they quarrelled now and then, 
When o'er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest ? 

All the folk in Altafiord 

Boasted of their island grand ; 
Saying in a single word, 
" Iceland is the finest land 
That the sun 
Doth shine upon ! " 
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest 

And he answered : * ' What 's the use 

Of this bragging up and down, 
When three women and one goose 
Make a market in your town ! " 
Every Scald 
Satires scrawled 
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 

Something worse they did than that ; 

And what vexed him most of all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 

Drawn in charcoal on the wall ; 
With words thai go 
Sprawling below, 
" This is Thangbrand, Olafs Priest." 

Hardly knowing what he did, 

Then he smote them might and main 

Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 

Lay there in the alehouse slain. 

" To-day we are gold. 

To-morrow mould ! " 

Muttered Thangbrand, Olafs Priest. 

Much in fear of axe and rope. 
Back to Norway sailed he then. 



254 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



" 0, King Olaf ! little hope 
Is there of these Iceland men ! 
Meekly said, 
With bending head, 

Pious Thangbrand, Olaf s Priest. 



RAUD THE STRONG. 

" All the old gods are dead. 

All the wild warlocks fled ; 

But the White Christ lives and reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 

His Gospel shall be spread ! " 

On the Evangelists 

Thus swore King Olaf. 

But still in dreams of the night 
Beheld he the crimson light. 
And heard the voice that defied 
Him who was crucified. 
And challenged him to the tight. 

To Sigurd the Bishop 

King Olaf confessed it. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
" The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns. 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread. " 

Thus to King Olaf 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 

" Far north in the Salten Fiord, 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

Lives the Viking, Eaud the Strong ; 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde." 

Thus Avent on speaking 

Sigurd the Bishop. 

" A warlock, a wizard is he. 

And lord of the wind and the sea ; 

And whichever way he sails, 

He has ever favoring gales, 

By his craft in sorcery." 

Here the sign of the cross 
Made devoutly King Olaf. 

" With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor ; 
So it cannot yet be said. 
That all the old gods are dead. 
And the warlocks are no more," 

Flushing with anger 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 



Then King Olaf cried aloud : 
' ' I will talk with this mighty Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my shroud ! ' 

So northward from Drontheim 

Sailed King Olaf ! 



BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olafs ships came sailing 
Northward out of Drontheim haven 
To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 

Though the flying sea-spray drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers' benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 

Of the champions there on board. 

All without the Fiord was quiet, 
But within it storm and riot. 
Such as on his Viking cruises 

Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 

And the sea through all its tide-ways 
Swept the reeling vessels sideways. 
As the leaves are swept through sluices, 
When the flood-gates open wide. 

'* 'T is the warlock ! 't is the demon 
Raud ! " cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 
" But the Lord is not aflrighted 
By the witchcraft of his foes." 

To the ship's bow he ascended. 
By his choristers attended. 
Round him were the tapers lighted, 
And the sacred incense rose. 

On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 
In his robes, as one transfigured. 
And the Crucifix he planted 

High amid the rain and mist. 

Then with hqjy water sprinkled 
All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled ; 
Loud the monks around him chanted, 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 

As into the Fiord they darted. 
On each side the water parted ; 
Down a path like silver molten 

Steadily rowed King Olafs ships ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



255 



steadily burned all night the tapers, 
And the White Christ through the vapors 
Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 
As through John's Apocalypse, — 

Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling 
On the little isle of Gelling ; 
Not a guard was at the doorway, 

Not a glimmer of light was seen. 

But at anchor, carved and gilded. 
Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 
T was the grandest ship in Norway, 
With its crest and scales of green. 

Up the stairway, softly creeping. 
To the loft where Eaud was sleeping. 
With their fists they burst asunder 
Bolt and bar that held the door. 

Drunken Avith sleep and ale they found 

him, 
Dragged him from his bed and bound him. 
While he stared with stupid wonder. 
At the look and garb they wore. 

Then King Olaf said : '' Sea- King ! 
Little time have we for speaking, 
Choose between the good and .evil ; 
Be baptized, or thou shalt die ! 

But in scorn the heathen scoffer 
Answered : "I disdain thine ofi'er ; 
Neither fear I God nor Devil ; 

Thee and thy Gospel I defy ! " 

Then between his jaws distended, 
When his frantic struggles ended. 
Through King Olaf s horn an adder, 

Touched by fire, they forced to 
glide. 

Sharp his tooth was as an arrow. 

As he gnawed through bone and marrow ; 

But without a groan or shudder, 

Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 

Then baptized they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 
Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 
Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 

In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and ashes trodden, 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping. 

Preached the Gospel with his svrord. 



Then he took the carved and gilded 
Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, 
And the tiller single-handed. 

Grasping, steered into the main. 

Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, 
Southward sailed the ship that bore him, 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 



KING OLAF S CHKISTMAS. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King 
Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 

As he sat in his banquet-hall, 
Drinking the nut-brown ale, 
With his bearded Berserks hale 

And tall. 

Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops and Priests, 

And his horn filled up to the brim ; 
But the ale was never too strong. 
Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 

For him. 

O'er his drinking-horn, the sign 
He made of the cross divine. 

As he drank, and muttered his 
prayers ; 
But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 

Over theirs. 

The gleams of the fire-light dance 
Upon helmet and hauberk and lance. 

And laugh in the eyes of the King ; 
And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 

"Sing !" 

" Sing me a song divine. 
With a sword in every line, 

And this shall be thy reward." 
And he loosened the belt at his waist. 
And in front of the singer placed, 

His sword. 

"Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through, 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

Nor so ti-ue." 



256 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Then the Scald took his harp and sang, 
A.nd loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word ; 
And the harp-strings a clangor made, 
As if they were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 

That made the rafters ring : 
They smote with their fists on the board, 
And shouted, " Long live the Sword, 

And the King ! " 

But the King said, " my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." 
And Halfred the Scald replied, 
" In another 't was multiplied 

Three times." 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt. 

And said, " Do not refuse ; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross : 

Choose ! " 

And Halfred the Scald said, ' ' This 
In tlie name of the Lord I kiss, 

"Who on it was crucified ! " 
And a shout went round the board, 
*' In the name of Christ the Lord, 

Who died ! " 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 

Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 

From the hilt of the lifted sword. 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank " Was-hael ! 

To the Lord ! " 



XIII. 
fHE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder. 

In his ship-yard by the sea, 
Whistling, said, "It would bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 
Any man but me ! " 



Near him lay the Dragon stranded. 

Built of old by Raud the Strong, 
And King Olaf had commanded 
He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 

As he sat with half-closed eyes. 
And his head turned sideways, drafting 
That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 
Mallet huge and heavy axe ; 

Workmen laughed and sang and clam- 
ored ; 

Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 
Spun the shining flax ! 

All this tumult heard the master, — 

It was music to his ear ; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting 

For a hundred year ! " 

Workmen sweating at the forges 
Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlock's midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boiling tar. 

Did the warlocks ndngle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing. 
Turning bad to worse ? 

'T was an ill wind that came wafting, 
From his homestead words of woe , 

To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 

Oft repeating to his workmen. 
Build ye thus and so. 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night • 
To his ship-yard longing, yearning. 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 
Till the morning's light. 

' ' Come and see my ship, my darling 
On the morrow said the King ; 

" Finished now from keel to carling ; 

Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! " 

In the ship-yard, idly talking. 

At the ship the wo'.-kmpn stared ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



257 



Some one, all their labor balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 

'* Death be to the evil-doer ! " 

With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 
" But rewards to his pursuer ! " 
And with wrath his face grew redder 
Than his scarlet cloak. 

Straight the master-builder, smiling, 
Answered thus the angry King : 
" Cease blaspheming and reviling, 
Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 
Who has done this thing ! " 

Then he chipped and smoothed the plank- 
ing, 

Till the King, delighted, swore. 
With much lauding and much thanking, 
" Handsomer is now my Dragon 

Than she was before ! " 

Seventy ells and four extended 

On the grass the vessel's keel ; 

High above it, gilt and splendid, 

Rose the figure-head ferocious 
With its crest of steel. 

Then they launched her from the tressels. 

In the ship-yard by the sea ; 
She was the grandest of all vessels, 
Never ship was built in Norway 
Half so fine as she ! 

The Long Serpent was she christened, 
'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 
They who to the Saga listened 
Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting 
For a hundred year ! • 



XIV. 

THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

^OAFE at anchor in Drontheim bay 
King Olaf's fieet assembled lay, 

And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and banner, 
As alights the screaming lanner ; 
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 
The Long Serpent's crew 

Her forecastle man was Uif the Red ; 
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, 
17 



His teeth as large and white ; 
His beard, of gray and russet blended^ 
Round as a swallow's nest descended ; 
As standard-bearer he defended 

Olaf's flag in the fight. 

Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 
Like the King in garb and face, 

So gallant and so hale ; 
Every cabin-boy and varlet 
Wondered at his cloak of scarlet ; 
Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 

Gleamed his coat of mail. 

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 
Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 

A figure gaunt and grand ; 
On his hairy arm imprinted 
Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 
Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 

Was his brawny hand. 

Einar Tamberskelver, bare 
To the winds his golden hair. 

By the mainmast stood ; 
Graceful was his form, and slender. 
And his eyes were deep and tender 
As a woman's, in the splendor 

Of her maidenhood. 



In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 
Watched the sailors at their work ,' 

Heavens ! how they swore ! 
Thirty men they each commanded, 
Iron-sinewed, horny-handed. 
Shoulders broad, and chests expanded. 

Tugging at the oar. 

These, and many more like these, 
With King Olaf sailed the seas. 

Till the waters vast 
Filled them with a vague devotion, 
With the freedom and the motion. 
With the roll and roar of ocean 

And the sounding blast. 

When they landed from the fleet, 
How they roared through Drontheim's 
street. 
Boisterous as the gale ! 
How they laughed and stamped and 

pounded, 
i Till the tavern roof resounded. 
And the host looked on astounded 
As they drank the ale ! 



258 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Never saw the wild North Sea 
Such a gallant company 

Sail its billows blue ! 
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 
Owned a ship so well apparelled. 

Boasted such a crew ! 



A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 

A LITTLE bird in the air 
Is singing of Thyri the fair. 

The sister of Svend the Dane ; 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

In the streets of the town is heard, 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

To King Burislaf, it is said, 
AVas the beautiful Thyri wed. 

And a sorrowful bride went she ; 
And after a week and a day, 
She has fled away and away. 
From his town by the stormy sea. 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 

They say, that through heat and through 

cold, 
Through weald, they say, and through 
wold. 
By day and by night, they say. 
She has fled ; and the gossips report 
She has come to King Olaf's court, 
And the town is all in dismay. 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; 

And they wonder how it will end ; 
For surely, if here she remain. 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

0, greatest wonder of all ! 

It is published in hamlet and hall. 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 
The King — yes, Olaf the King — 
Has wedded her with his ring. 
And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 



QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA 
STALKS. 

Northward over Drontheim, 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls. 
Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green ; 

Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf's Queen. 

In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove ; 

But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded, 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 

Then King Olaf entered. 
Beautiful as morning, 
Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face ; 

In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted. 
With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 

Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom ; 

Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And Avith words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 

In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn ; 

But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant. 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

"Richer presents," said she, 
* ' Gave King Harald Gornison 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



259 



To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

"When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom. 
Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

" But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf ; 

" Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff. ' ' 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding, 
With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 

" Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin ! " 

Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the doorway. 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult. 
Through the streets of Drontheirn 
Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round ; 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls. 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 

Through the Danish Sound 

With his own hand fearless, 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage. 
Bent each boom and gaff ; 

Till in Vendland landing, 
The domains of Thyri 
He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf. 



Then said Olaf, laughing, 
" Not ten yoke of oxen 
Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman's hair ! 

"Now will I confess it. 
Better things are jewels 
Than angelica stalks are 
For a Queen to wear." 



XVII. 
KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARH 

Loudly the sailors cheered 
Svend of the Forked Beard, 
As with his fleet he steered 

Southward to Vendland ; 
Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 

Near to the mainland. 

After Queen Gunhild's death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
Plighted King Svend his faith 

To Sigrid the Haughty ; 
And to avenge his bride. 
Soothing her wounded pride, 
Over the waters wide 

King Olaf sought he. 

Still on her scornful face. 
Blushing with deep disgrace. 
Bore she the crimson trace 

Of Olaf's gauntlet ; 
Like a malignant star, 
Blazing in heaven afar. 
Red shone the angry scar 

Under her frontlet. 

Oft to King Svend she spake, 
" For thine own honor's sake 
Shalt thou swift vengeance take 

On the vile coward ! " 
Until the King at last, 
Gusty and overcast, 
Like a tempestuous blast 

Threatened and lowered. 

Soon as the Spring appeared, 
Svend of the Forked Beard 
High his red standard reared, 

Eager for battle ; 
While every warlike Dane, 
Seizing his arms again, 



260 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Left all imsov\'n the grain, 
Unhoused the cattle. 

Likewise the Swedish King 
Summoned in haste a Thing, 
Weapons and men to bring 

In aid of Denmark ; 
Eric the Norseman, too, 
As the war-tidings flew. 
Sailed with a chosen crew 

From Lapland and Finmark. 

So upon Easter day 

Sailed the three kings away, 

Out of the sheltered bay. 

In the bright season ; 
With them Earl Sigvald came. 
Eager for spoil and fame ; 
Pity that such a name 

Stooped to such treason ! 

Safe under Svald at last, 
Now^ were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast. 

Plotted the three kings ; 
While, with a base intent. 
Southward Earl Sigvald went. 
On a foul errand bent. 

Unto the Sea-kings. 

Thence to hold on his course, 
Unto King Olaf's force, 
Lying within the hoarse 

Mouths of Stet-haven ; 
Him to ensnare and bring, 
Unto the Danish king, 
Who his dead corse would flin| 

Forth to the raven ! 



KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
4^he soa-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter out. 



The war-horns are i)layed, 
The anchors are weighed. 
Like moths in the distancfr 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead. 
The liarbor lies dead. 
As a corse on the sea-shore^ 
Whose spirit has fled ! 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows they ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl : "Follow me ! 
I your pilot Avill be. 
For 1 know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea ! " 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails ; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 



XIX. 
KING olaf's war-horns. 

" Strike the sails ! " King Olaf said j 
" Never shall men of mine take flight ; 
Never away from battle I fled. 
Never away from my foes ! 

Let God dispose 
Of my life in the light ! " 

"Sound the horns ! " said Olaf the King? 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the Day of Doom ! 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood ; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



26i 



All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat ; 
In the midst, but in front of the rest 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak. 
His gilded shield was without a fleck, 
His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships ; 
' ' If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here, 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an ^rrow on string, 
" Have I a coward on board ? " said he. 
"Shoot it another way, King ! " 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 
The old sea- wolf ; 
" You have need of me ! " 

In front came Svend, the King of tlie 

Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his 

thanes ; 
And on board of the Iron Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
To the left with his oars. 

"These soft Danes and Swedes," said the 

King, 
" At home with their wives had better 

stay. 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's 

sting : 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day ! " 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide. 
With which King Olafs ships were 
lashed. 



And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King ! 



EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast ; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver. 

Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Eric unavailing, 

As he sat concealed. 
Half behind the quarter-railing. 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 

Just above his head ; 
''Sing, Eyvind Skaldaspiller, " 

Then Earl Eric said. 
" Sing the song of Hakon dying. 

Sing his funeral wail ! " 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat of mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman. 

As the arrow passed. 
Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 
Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft ; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 

" What was that ? " said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
"Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered v/reck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string. 
Answered, " That was Norway breaking 

From thy hand, King ! " 

" Thou art bat a poor diviner," 

Straightway Olaf said ; 
" Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

Let thy shafts be sped." 



262 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow ; 
At the first assay, 

O'er its head he drew the arrow, 
Flung the bow away ; 

Said, with hot and angry temper 
Flushing in his cheek, 
Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 
Are thy bows too weak 1 " 

Then, Avith smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip, 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing. 

Bright his armor gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



XXI, 
KING OLAF's death-drink. 

All day has the battle raged. 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped. 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

Tliey drift as wrecks on the tide, 
The grappling-irons are plied, 
The boarders climb up the side. 
The shouts are feeble and few. 

Ah ! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o'er the main ; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue ! 

On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen fling, 

And the stones they hurl with their 
hands. 

In the midst of the stones and the spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears. 
His shield in the air he uprears. 
By the side of King Olaf he stands. 



Over the slippery wreck 
Of the Long Serpent's deck 
Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale ; 

He hews with his axe at the mast, 
Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 

Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men. 
As a hunter into the den 

Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 

" Remember Jarl Hakon ! " he cries ; 
When lo ! on his wondering eyes. 
Two kingly figures arise. 
Two Olafs in warlike array ! 

Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer. 
In a whisper that none may hear. 
With a smile on his tremulous lip ; 

Two shields raised high in the air. 
Two flashes of golden hair. 
Two scarlet meteors' glare. 

And both have leaped from the ship. 

Earl Eric's men in the boats 
Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 
And cry, from their hairy throats, 
"See ! it is Olaf the King!" 

While far on the opposite side 
Floats another shield on the tide, 
Like a jewel set in the %vide 
Sea-current's eddying ring. 

There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped ofl" his mail. 
Like leaves of the brown sea-kale. 
As he swam beneath the main ; 

But the young grew old and gray, 
And never, by night or by day, 
In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again ! 



XXII. 

THE NUN OF NIDAROS, 

In the convent of Dronthehn, 
Alone in her chamber 
Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 
At midnight, adoring. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



263 



Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 

She heard in the silence 
The voice of one sj>eaking, 
Withont in the darkness, 
In gusts of the night-wind 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 

The voice of a stranger 
It seemed as she listened, 
Of some one who answered, 
Beseeching, imploring, 
A cry from afar off 
She could not distinguish. 

The voice of Saint John, 
The beloved disciple, 
Who wandered and waited 
The Master's appearance. 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unsheltered and friendless. 

" It is accejDted 

The angry defiance. 

The challenge of battle ! 

It is accepted. 

But not with the wea^ions 

Of war that thou wieldest ! 

*' Cross against corselet, 

Love against hatred, 

Peace-cry for war-cry ! 

Patience is powerful ; 

He that o'ercometh 

Hath power o'er the nations \ 

* ' As torrents in summer. 
Half dried in their channels, 
Suddenly rise, though the 
Sky is still cloudless. 
For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains ; 

So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o'erflowing, 
And they that behold it 
Marvel, and know not 
Tha.t God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining ! 

"Stronger than steel 
Is the sword of the Spirit ; 
Smfter than arrows 
The light of the truth is, 
Greatei" than anger 
Is love, and subdueth ! 



"Thou art a phantom, 
A shape of the sea-mist, 
A shape of the brumal 
Eain, and the darkness 
Fearful and formless ; 
Day dawns and thou art not ! 

' ' The dawn is not distant. 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal ! 
God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us ; 
Christ is eternal !" 



INTERLUDE. 

A STRAIN of music closed the tale, 
A low, monotonous, funeral wail. 
That with its cadence, wild and sweet, 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

" Thank God," the Theologian said, 
" The reign of violence is dead, 
Or dying surely from the world ; 
While Love triumphant reigns instead. 
And in a brighter sky o'erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 
And most of all thank God for this : 
The war and waste of clashing creeds 
Now end in words, and not in deeds, 
And no one suffers loss, or bleeds. 
For thoughts that men call heresies.. 

" I stand without here in the porch,, 

I hear the bell's melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that 

scorch 
Like sparks from an inverted torch, 
I hear the sermon upon sin. 
With threatenings of the last account. 
And all, translated in the air, 
Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer.. 
And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

" Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds. 
Or holy water, books, and beads ? 
IVIust struggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent ? 
And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year embalms 
With evergreens and boughs of palms, 
And fills the air with litanies ? 

" I know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me : 



264 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



In my humiliation dressed, 

I only stand and beat my breast, 

And pray for human charity. 

" Not to one church alone, but seven, 
The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; 
And unto each the promise came. 
Diversified, but still the same ; 
For him that overcometh are 
The new name written on the stone, 
The raiment white, the crown, the throne, 
And I will give him the Morning Star ! 

*' Ah ! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen, 
But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 
For whom no Man of Sorrows died. 
For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign. 
And Christ a phantom crucified ! 

"For others a diviner creed 
Is living in the life they lead. 
The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street. 
And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet. 
Not as a vulture, but a dove, 
The Holy Ghost came from above. 

''And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well m&.j quail. 
And question if such things can be ; 
Yet in the chronicles of Spain 
Down the dark pages runs this stain. 
And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, 
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain. 
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of 

Spain, 
In a great castle near Valladolid, 
Moated and high and by fair woodlands 

hid, 
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we 

learn. 
An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, 
Whose name has perished, with his tow- 
ers of stone. 
And all his actions save this one alone : 



This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best 
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest ; 
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see 

therein 
The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin ; 
A double picture, with its gloom and 

glow. 
The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as lost 

On which his feet no sacred threshold 
crossed ; 

And when he chanced the passing Host 
to meet. 

He knelt and prayed devoutly in the 
street ; 

Oft he confessed ; and with each muti- 
nous thought, 

As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. 

In deep contrition scourged himself in 
Lent, 

V/alked in processions, with his head 
down bent. 

At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 

And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of 
green. 

His sole diversion was to hunt the boar 

Through tangled thickets of the forest 
hoar. 

Or with his jingling mules to hurry 
down 

To some grand bull-fight in the neigh- 
boring town. 

Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 

When Jews were burned, or banished 
from the land. 

Then stirred within him a tumultuous 

joy ; 

The demon whose delight is to destroy 
Shook him, and shouted with a trum- 
pet tone, 
Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out 
his own ! " 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 

His daughters, in the dawn of woman- 
hood, 

Eeturning from their convent school, 
had made 

Resplendent with their bloom the forest 
shade, 

Reminding him of their dead mother's 
face. 

When first she came into that gloomy 
place, — 

A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 

As moonlight in a solitary street. 



TORQUEMADA. 



265 



Where the same rays, that lift the sea, 

are thrown 
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. 
These two fair daughters of a mother 

dead 
Were all the dream had left him as it 

fled. 
A joy at first, and then a growing care. 
As if a voice within him cried, "Be- 
ware ! " 
A vague presentiment of impending 

doom, 
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, 
Haunted him day and night ; a formless 

fear 
That death to some one of his house was 

near, 
With dark surmises of a hidden crime. 
Made life itself a death before its time. 
Jealous, suspicious, Avith no sense of 

shame, 
A spy upon his daughters he became ; 
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the 

floors, 
He glided softly through half-open doors ; 
Now in the room, and now upon the 

stair, 
He stood beside them ere they were 

aware ; 
He listened in the passage when they 

talked. 
He watched them from the casement 

when they walked, 
He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side. 
He saw the monk among the cork-trees 

glide ; 
And, tortured by the mystery and the 

doubt 
Of some dark secret, past his finding out, 
Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 
Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 
He watched them even when they knelt 

in church ; 
And then, descending lower in his search. 
Questioned the servants, and with eager 

eyes 
Listened incredulous to their replies ; 
The gypsy ? none had seen her in the 

wood ! 
The monk ? a mendicant in search of 

food ! 

At length the awful revelation came, 
Crushing at once his pride of birth and 

name; 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward 

cast. 



And the ancestral glories of the past, 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of 

night 
In their own chamber, and without a 

light. 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 
And learned the dreadful secret, word by 

word ; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a 

cry 
He raised his hands to the unpitying 

sky. 
Repeating one dread Avord, till bush and 

tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, 

' ' Heresy ! " 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn 

o'er his face, 
Now hurrying forward, now with lin- 
gering pace. 
He walked all night the alleys of his 

park. 
With one unseen companion in the dark. 
The Demon who within him lay in wait, 
And by his presence turned his love to 

hate. 
Forever muttering in an undertone, 
" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out 
his own ! " 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, , 

While yet the dew was glistening on the 
grass, 

And all the woods were musical with 
birds. 

The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, 

AValked homeward with the Priest, and 
in his room 

Summoned his trembling daughters to 
their doom. 

When questioned, with brief answer? 
they replied. 

Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 

Expostulations, passionate appeals, 

All that the human heart most fears ot 
feels. 

In vain the Priest with earnest voice es- 
sayed ; 

In vain the father threatened, wept, and 
prayed ; 

Until at last he said, with haughty 
mien, 

'VTh? Holy Ofiice, then, must inter- 
vene ! " 



266 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 
His awful name resounding, like the 

blast 
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward 

passed. 
Came to Valladolid, and there began 
To harry the rich Jews with fire and 

ban. 
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the 

gate 
Demanded audience on affairs of state, 
And in a secret chamber stood before 
A venerable graybeard of fourscore, 
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 
Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire. 
And in his hand the mystic horn he 

held. 
Which poison and all noxious charms 

dispelled. 
He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale. 
Then answered in a voice that made him 

quail : 
" Son of the Church ! when Abraham 

of old 
To sacrifice his only son was told, 
He did not pause to parley nor protest, 
But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 
In him it was accounted righteousness ; 
The Holy Church expects of thee no 

less ! " 

A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, 
•And Mercy from that hour implored in 

vain. 
Ah ! who will e'er believe the words I 

say? 
His daughters he accused, and the same 

day 
They both were cast into the dungeon's 

gloom, 
That dismal antechamber of the tomb. 
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced 

to the flame. 
The secret torture and the public shame. 

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 
The Hidalgo Avent, more eager than be- 
fore. 
And said : * ' When Abraham offered up 

his son, 
He clave the wood Avherewith it might 

be done. 
By his example taught, let me too bring 
Wood from the forest for my offering ! " 
And the deep voice, without a pause, 
replied : 



" Son of the Church ! by faith now jus- 
tified. 

Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou 
wilt ; 

The Church absolves thy conscience from 
all guilt ! " 

Then this most wretched father wen* 
his way 

Into the woods, ttat round his castle 
lay, 

Where once his daughters in their child- 
hood played 

With their young mother in the sun 
and shade. 

Now all the leaves had fallen ; the 
branches bare 

Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 

And screaming from their eyries over- 
head 

The ravens sailed athwart the sky of 
lead. 

With his own hands he lopped the 
boughs and bound 

Fagots, that crackled with foreboding 
sound. 

And on his mules, caparisoned and 

gay 

With bells and tassels, sent them on 
their way. 

Then with his mind on one dark purpose 

bent. 
Again to the Inquisitor he went, 
And said : " Behold, the fagots I have 

brought. 
And now, lest my atonement be as 

naught. 
Grant me one more request, one last de- 
sire, — 
With my own hand to light the funeral 

fire ! " 
And Torquemada answered from his 

seat, 
"Son of the Church ! Thine offering is 

complete ; 
Her servants through all ages shall not 

cease 
To magnify thy deed. Depart in 

peace ! " 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 
The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed 

his own. 
At the four corners, in stern attitude. 
Four statues of the Hebrew Propheta 

stood. 



INTERLUDE. 



267 



Gazing with calm indifference in their 

eyes 
Upon this place of human sacrifice, 
Round which Avas gathering fast the ea- 
ger crowd, 
With clamor of voices dissonant and 

loud, 
And every roof and window was alive 
With restless gazers, swarming like a 
hive. 

The church-bells tolled, the chant of 

monks drew near. 
Loud trumpets stammered forth their 

notes of fear, 
A line of torches smoked along the 

street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, 
And, with its banners floating in the air. 
Slowly the long procession crossed the 

square. 
And, to the statues of the Prophets 

bound. 
The victims stood, with fagots piled 

around. 
Then all the air a blast of trumpets 

shook, 
And louder sang the monks with bell 

and book. 
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and 

proud, 
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through 

the crowd, 
Lighted in haste the fagots, and then 

fled, 
Lest those imploring eyes should strike 

him dead ! 

pitiless skies ! why did your clouds 
retain 

For peasants' fields their floods of hoard- 
ed rain ? 

pitiless earth ! why open no abyss 

To bury in its chasm a crime like this ? 

That night, a mingled column of fire 

and smoke 
From the dark thickets of the forest 

broke. 
And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues 

away, 
Made all the fields and hamlets bright 

as day. 
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle 

blazed, 
And as the villagers in terror gazed. 
They saw the figure of that cruel knight 



Lean from a window in the turret's 

height, 
His ghastly face illumined with the 

glare, 
His hands upraised above his head in 

prayer, 
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he 

fell 
Down the black hollow of that burning 

well. 

Three centuries and more above his 
bones 

Have piled the oblivious years like fu- 
neral stones ; 

His name has perished with him, and 
no trace 

Remains on earth of his afflicted race ; 

But Torquemada's name, with clouds 
o'ercast, 

Looms in the distant landscape of the 
Past, 

Like a burnt tower upon a blackened 
heath. 

Lit by the fires of burning woods be- 
neath ! 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus closed the tale of guilt and 

gloom, 
That cast upon each listener's face 
Its shadow, and for some brief space 
Unbroken silence filled the room. 
The Jew was thoughtful and distressed ; 
Upon his memory thronged and pressed 
The persecution of his race, 
Their wrongs and sufferings and disu 

grace ; 
His head was sunk upon his breast, 
And from his eyes alternate came 
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 

The student first the silence broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate. 

And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 

" In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 

O'ermasters and drags down the soul 

Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Italian Tales that you disdain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or Machiavelli's Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us more, 



268 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Give greater pleasure and less pain 
Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! 

And here the Poet raised his hand, 
With such entreaty and command, 
It stopped discussion at its birth, 
And said : " The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
»The merry birds of Killingworth ! " 



THE POET'S TALE. 

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

It was the season, when through all the 
land 
The merle and mavis build, and build- 
ing sing 
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 
Whom Saxon Csedmon calls the Blithe- 
heart King ; 
When on the boughs the purple buds ex- 
pand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the 
Spring, 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 
And wave their fluttering signals from 
the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 
Filled all the blossoming orchards 
with their glee ; 
The sparrows chirped as if they still were 
proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should men- 
tioned be ; 
And hungry crows assembled in a crowd. 
Clamored their piteous prayer inces- 
santly. 
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and 

said : 
"Give us, Lord, this day our daily 
bread ! " 

Across the Sound the birds of passage 
sailed, 
Speaking some unknown language 
strange and sweet 
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their 
fleet ; 
Or quarrelling together, laughed and 
railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in the 
street 



Of seaport town, and with outlandish 

noise 
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls 

and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing- 
worth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred years 
ago ; 
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the 
earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of the 
crow. 
That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 
They shook their heads, and doomed 

with dreadful words 
To swift destruction the whole race of 
birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened 
straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay. 
Levied black-mail upon the garden 
beds 
And cornfields, and beheld without dis- 
may 
The awful scarecrow, with his flutter- 
ing shreds ; 
The skeleton that waited at their feast. 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was in- 
creased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted 
white. 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 
The Squire came forth, august and splen- 
did sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 
Three flights of steps, nor looking left 
nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as 
one who said, 
"A town that boasts inhabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society ! " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man aus- 
tere. 
The instinct of whose nature was to 
kill; 
The wrath of God he preached from year 
to year. 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the 
Will ; 
His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 



269 



E'en now, while walking down the rural 

lane, 
He lopped the wayside lilies with his 

cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of 
brass. 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the 
green grass. 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Alniira in the upper class. 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from his 
door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white 
as snow ; 
A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 
His form was ponderous, and his step 
was slow ; 
There never was so wise a man before ; 
He seemed the incarnate "Well, I 
told you so ! " 
And to perpetuate his great renown 
There was a street named after him in 
town. 

These came together in the new town- 
hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region 
round. 
The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 
His air impressive and his reasoning 
sound ; 
111 fared it with the birds, both great 
and small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they 
found, 
But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes be- 
neath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place 
apart. 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the 
wrong, 
A.nd, trembling like a steed before the 
start, 
Looked round bewildered on the ex- 
pectant throng ; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and took 
heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear 
and strong. 



Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 
And quite determined not to be laughed 
down. 

" Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
From his Republic banished without 
pity 
The Poets ; in this little town of yours, 
You put to death, by means of a Com' 
mittee, 
The ballad-singers and the Troubadours , 
The street-musicians of the heavenl,; 
city. 
The birds, who make sweet music for us 

all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul 

' ' The thrush that carols at the dawn of 
day 
From the green steeples of the piny 
wood ; 
The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 
The bluebird balanced on some topmost 
spray, _ 
Flooding with melody the neighbor- 
hood ; 
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the 

throng 
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of 
song. 

"You slay them all! and wherefore? 
for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of 
wheat. 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain. 
Scratched up at random by industri- 
ous feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests' 
Sing at their feast with comfortable 
breasts. 

"Do you ne'er think what wondrou? 
beings these ? 
Do you ne'er think who made them, 
and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 
Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in 
many keys. 
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er 
caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
1 Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 



270 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



'Think, every morning when the sun 
peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the 
grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 

Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 

And when you think of this, remember 

too 

'T is always morning somewhere, and 

above 

^he awakening continents, from shore 

to shore. 
Somewhere the birds are singing ever- 
more. 

"Think of your woods and orchards 
without birds ! 
Of empty nests that cling to boughs 
and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 
Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his 
dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 
Make up for the lost music, when your 
teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no 

more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your 
door? 

" What ! would you rather see the inces- 
sant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay. 
And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 
Is this more pleasant to you than the 
whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet rounde- 
lay, 
Or twitter of little field-fares, as you 

take 
Your nooning ir the shade of bush and 
brake ? 

** You call them thieves and pillage>^s ; 
but know. 
They are the winged wardens of your 
farms. 
Who from the cornfields drive the insid- 
ious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hun- 
dred harms ; 
Even the blackest of them all, the crow. 
Renders good service as your man-at- 
arms. 
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 
And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 



" How can I teach your children gentle- 
ness. 
And mercy to the weak, and reverence 
For Life, which, in its weakness or 
excess, 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence. 
Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is 
no less 
The selfsame light, although averted 
hence. 
When by your laws, your actions, and 

your speech, 
You contradict tlie very things I teach ? " 

With this he closed ; and through the 
audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead 
leaves ; 

The farmers laughed and nodded, and 
some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their 
sheaves ; 

Men have no faith in fine-spun senti- 
ment 
Who put their trust in bullocks and 
in beeves. 

The birds were doomed ; and, as the rec- 
ord show^s, 

A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making 
laws. 
But in the papers read his little speech. 
And crowned his modest temples with 
applause ; 
They made him conscious, each one more 
than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in 
their cause. 
Sweetest of all the applause he won from 

thee, 
fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began ; 
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er 
woodland crests. 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 
Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains 
on their breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of 
man. 
While the young died of famine in 
their nests ; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not 

words. 
The very St, Bartholomew of Birds \ 



FINALE. 



271 



The Summer came, and all the birds 
were dead ; 
The days were like hot coals ; the 
very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards 
fed 
Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, 
and found 
No foe to check their march, till they 

had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the 
town, 
Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the 
trees spun down 
The canker-worms upon the passers- 
by, 
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and 
gown, 
Who shook them off with just a little 
cry ; 
They were the terror of each favorite 

walk, 
The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 
Confessed their error, and would not 
complain. 
For after all, the best thing one can do 

When it is raining, is to let it rain. 
Then they repealed the law, although 
they knew 
It would not call the dead to life again ; 
As school-boys, finding their mistake too 

late. 
Draw a wet sponge across the accusing 
slate. 

That year in KillingAvorth the Autumn 
came 
Without the light of his majestic 
look, 
The wonder of the falling tongues of 
flame. 
The illumined pages of his Doom's- 
Day book. 
A few lest leaves blushed crimson with 
their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing 
in the brook, 
" While the wild Avind went moaning 

everywhere, 
Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 



But the next Spring a stranger sight was 
seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was 
sung. 
As great a wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a 
tongue ! 
A wagon, overarched with evergreen. 
Upon whose boughs were wicker cages 
hung. 
All full of singing birds, came down the 

street. 
Filling the air with music wild and 
sweet. 

From all the country round these birds 

were brought. 
By order of the town, with anxious 

quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, 

sought 
In woods and fields the places they 

loved best. 
Singing loud canticles, which many 

thought 
Were satires to the authorities ad- 
dressed, 
While others, listening in green lanes, 

averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to 
know 
It was the fair Almira's wedding-day. 
And everywhere, around, above, be- 
low. 
When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous over- 
flow. 
And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



FINALE. 

The hour was late ; the fire T)umec! 

low. 
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard, 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed ; the Landlord 

stirred, 
As one awaking from a swound, 
And, gazing anxiously around. 
Protested that he had not slept, 



272 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said "Good Night' 
A-lone remained the drowsy Squire 
To vake the embers of the fire, 
And quench the waning parlor light ; 



While from the windows, here and there, 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed. 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 
DowuAvard, athwart the misty air. 
Sinking and setting toward the sun. 
Far oft" the village clock struck one. 



PART SECOND. 



PRELUDE. 

A. COLD, uninterrupted rain. 
That washed each southern window- 
pane. 
And made a river of the road ; 
A sea of mist that overflowed 
The house, tlie barns, the gilded vane, 
And drowned the upland and the plain, 
Through which the oak-trees, broad and 

high, 
Like phantom ships went drifting by ; 
And, hidden behind a watery screen. 
The sun unseen, or only seen 
As a faint pallor in the sky ; — 
Thus cold and colorless and gray. 
The morn of that autumnal day, 
As if reluctant to begin, 
Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, 
And all the guests that in it lay. 

Full late they slept. They did not 

hear 
The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, 
Who on the empty threshing-floor, 
Disdainful of the rain outside. 
Was strutting with a martial stride, 
As if upon his thigh he wore 
The famous broadsword of the Squire, 
And said, " Behold me, and admire ! " 

Only the Poet seemed to hear. 

In drowse or dream, more near and near 

Across the border-land of sleep 

The blowing of a blithesome horn, 

That laughed the dismal day to scorn ; 

A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels 

Through sand and mire like stranding 

keels, 
As from the road with sudden sweep 
The Mail drove up the little steep, 
And stopped beside the tavern door ; 
A moment stopped, and then again 



With crack of whip and bark of dog 
Plunged forward through the sea of fog, 
And all was silent as before, — 
All silent save the dripping rain. 

Then one by one the guests came down, 
And greeted with a smile the Squire, 
Who sat before the parlor fire, 
Reading the paper fresh from town. 
First the Sicilian, like a bird. 
Before his form appeared, was heai'd 
Whistling and singing down the stair ; 
Then came the Student, with a look 
As placid as a meadow-lDrook ; 
The Theologian, still perplexed 
With thoughts of this world and the 

next ; 
The Poet then, as one who seems 
Walking in visions and in dreams ; 
Then the Musician, like a fair 
Hyperion from whose golden hair 
The radiance of the morning streams ; 
And last the aromatic Jew 
Of Alicant, who, as he threw 
The door wide open, on the air 
Breathed round about him a perfume 
Of damask roses in full bloom, 
Making a garden of the room. 

The breakfast ended, each pursued 
The promptings of his various mood ; 
Beside the fire in silence smoked 
The taciturn, impassive Jew, 
Lost in a pleasant revery ; 
While, by his gravity provoked, 
His portrait the Sicilian drew, 
And A^Tote beneath it ' ' Edrehi, 
At the Red Horse in Sudbuiy." 

By far the busiest of them all. 
The Theologian in the hall 
Was feeding robins in a cage, — 
Two corpident and lazy birds, 



i 



THE BELL OF ATRL 



273 



Vagrants and pilferers at best, 
If one might trust the hostler's words, 
Chief instrument of their arrest ; 
Two poets of the Golden Age, 
Heirs of a boundless heritage 
Of fields and orchards, east and west, 
And sunshine of long summer days, 
Though outlawed now and dispos- 
sessed ! — 
Such was the Theologian's phrase. 

Meanwhile the Student held discourse 

With the Musician, on the source 

Of all the legendary lore 

Among the nations, scattered wide 

Like silt and seaweed by the force 

And fluctuation of the tide ; 

The tale repeated o'er and o'er, 

With change of place and change of 

name. 
Disguised, transformed, and yet the same 
We 've heard a hundred times before. 

The Poet at the window mused. 
And saw, as in a dream confused. 
The countenance of the Sun, discrowned. 
And haggard with a pale despair, 
And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift 
Before it, and the trees uplift 
Their leafless branches, and the air 
Filled with the arrows of the rain, 
And heard amid the mist below. 
Like voices of distress and pain, 
That haunt the thoughts of men insane. 
The fateful cawings of the crow. 

Then down the road, with mud besprent. 
And drenched with rain from head to 

hoof, 
The rain-drops dripping from his mane 
And tail as from a pent-house roof, 
A jaded horse, his head down bent. 
Passed slowly, limping as he went. 

The young Sicilian — who had gi'own 
Impatient longer to abide 
A prisoner, greatly mortified 
To see completely overthrown 
His plans for angling in the brook. 
And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, 
To watch the speckled trout glide by, 
And float through the inverted sky. 
Still round and round the baited hook — 
Now paced the room with rapid stride, 
And, pausing at the Poet's side. 
Looked forth, and saw the wretched 
steed, 

18 



And said : ' ' Alas for human greed, 
That with cold hand and stony eye 
Thus turns an old friend out to die, 
Or beg his food from gate to gate ! 
Tins brings a tale into my mind, 
Which, if you are not disinclined 
To listen, I will now relate." 

All gave assent ; all wished to hear, 
Not without many a jest and jeer. 
The story of a spavined steed ; 
And even the Student with the rest 
Put in his pleasant little jest 
Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus 
Is but a horse that with all speed 
Bears poets to the hospital ; 
While the Sicilian, self- 
After a moment's interval 
Began his simple story thus. 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE BELL OF ATRI. 

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town 

Of ancient Roman date, but scant 

renown, 
One of those little places that have run 
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun. 
And then sat down to rest, as if to say, 
* ' I climb no farther upward, come what 

may," — 
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame. 
So many monarchs since have borne the 

name. 
Had a great bell hung in the market- 
place 
Beneath a roof, projecting some small 

space, 
By way of shelter from the sun and rain. 
Then rode he through the streets with 

all his train. 
And, with the blast of trumpets loud 

and long. 
Made proclamation, that whenever 

wrong 
Was done to any man, he should but ring 
The great bell in the square, and he, the 

King, 
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. 
Such was the proclamation of King John. 

How swift the happy days in Atri sped. 
What wrongs were righted, need not 

here be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 



274 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The hempen rope at length was worn 

away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by 

strand. 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, 
Till one, who noted this in passing by, 
Mended the rope with braids of briony, 
So that the leaves and tendrils of the 

vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 

A knight, with spur on heel and sword 
in belt. 

Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the 
woods. 

Who loved his falcons with their crim- 
son hoods, 

Who loved his hounds and horses, and 
all sports 

And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — 

Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, 
grown old. 

His only passion was the love of gold. 

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and 

hounds, 
Hented his vineyards and his garden- 
grounds, 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of 

all. 
To starve and shiver in a naked stall. 
And day by day sat brooding in his chair, 
Devising plans how best to hoard and 
spare. 

At length he said : * * What is the use 

or need 
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed. 
Eating his head off in my stables here, 
When rents are low and provender is 

dear ? 
Let him go feed upon the public ways ; 
I want him only for the holidays." 
So the old steed was turned into the 

heat 
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless 

street ; 
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, 
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier 

and thorn. 

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime 
It is the custom in the summer time. 
With bolted doors and window-shutters 

closed. 
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; 



When suddenly upon their senses fell 

The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! 

The Syndic started from his deep repose^ 

Turned on his couch, and listened, and 
then rose 

And donned his robes, and with reluc- 
tant pace 

Went panting forth into the market- 
place, 

Where the great bell upon its cross-beam 
swung 

Reiterating with persistent tongue, 

In half-articulate jargon, the old song ; 

"Some one hath done a wrong, hath 



done a w: 



•ong 



But ere he reached the belfry's light ar- 
cade 
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its 

shade. 
No shape of human form of woman born, 
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, 
Who with uplifted head and eager eye 
Was tugging at the vines of briony. 
" Domeneddio ! " cried the Syndic 

straight, 
"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of 

state ! 
He calls for justice, being sore distressed, 
And pleads his cause as loudly as the 
best." 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy 

crowd 
Had rolled together like a summer cloud. 
And told the story of the wretched beast 
In five-and-twenty different ways at 

least. 
With much gesticulation and appeal 
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal . 
The Knight was called and questioned ; 

in reply 
Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 
And set at naught the Syndic and tin) 

rest. 
Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 
That he should do what pleased him 

with his own. 

And thereupon the Sjmdic gravely read 
The proclamation of the King ; then 

said : 
" Pride goeth forth on horseback grand 

and gay. 
But Cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; 
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 



KAMBALU. 



275 



Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! 

These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear 

They never yet have reached your 
knightly ear. 

What fair renown, what honor, what re- 
pute 

Can come to you from starving this poor 
brute ? 

He who serves well and speaks not, 
merits more 

Than they who clamor loudest at the 
door. 

Therefore the law decrees that as this 
steed 

Served you in youth, henceforth you 
shall take heed 

To comfort his old age, and to provide 

Shelter in stall, and food and field be- 
side." 

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the 

people all 
Led home the steed in triumph to his 

stall. 
The King heard and approved, and 

laughed in glee, 
And cried aloud : " Eight well it pleas- 

eth me ! 
Church-bells at best but ring us to the 

door ; 
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth 

more : 
It Cometh into court and pleads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the 

laws ; 
And this shall make, in every Christian 

clime. 
The Bell of Atri famous for all time." 



INTERLUDE. 

** Yes, well your story pleads the cause 
Of those dumb mouths that have no 

speech. 
Only a cry from each to each 
In its own kind, with its own laws ; 
Something that is beyond the reach 
Of human power to learn or teach, — 
An inarticulate moan of pain, 
Like the immeasurable main 
Breaking upon an unknown beach." 

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; 
Then added, with impassioned cry. 
As one who feels the words he speaks, 
The color flushing in his cheeks, 



The fervor burning in his eye : 
" Among the noblest in the land, 
Though he may count himself the least, 
That man I honor and revere 
Who without favor, without fear, 
In the great city dares to stand 
The friend of every friendless beast, 
And tames with his unflinching hand 
The brutes that wear our form and face, 
The were- wolves of the human race ! " 
Then paused, and waited with a frown. 
Like some old champion of romance. 
Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, 
Expectant leans upon his lance ; 
But neither Knight nor Squire is found 
To raise the gauntlet from the ground, 
And try with him the battle's chance. 

" Wake from, your dreams, Edrehi ! 
Or dreaming speak to us, and make 
A feint of being half awake, 
And tell us what your dreams may be. 
Out of the hazy atmosphere 
Of cloud-land deign to reappear 
Among us in this Wayside Inn ; 
Tell us what visions and what scenes 
Illuminate the dark ravines 
In which you grope your way. 



Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew 
Made no reply, but only smiled. 
As men unto a wayward child, 
ISTot knowing what to answer, do. 
As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergi'own 
With moss and intortangled vines, 
A streamlet leaps into the light 
And murmurs over root and stone 
In a melodious undertone ; 
Or as amid the noonday night 
Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, 
There runs a sound as of the sea ; 
So from his bearded lips there cam^ 
A melody without a name, 
A song, a tale, a history, 
Or whatsoever it may be. 
Writ and recorded in these lines. 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 



Into the city of Kambalu, 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 
At the head of his dusty caravan, 
Laden with treasure from realms afar, 
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, 
Rode the great captain Alau. 



276 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The Khan from his palace-window gazed, 
And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun, that 

blazed 
Through the clouds of dust by the cara- 
van raised, 
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, 
And the shining scymitars of the guard. 
And the weary camels that bared their 

teeth, 
As they passed and passed through the 

gates unbarred 
Into the shade of the palace-yard. 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 
Rode the great captain Alau ; 
And he stood before the Khan, and said : 
" The enemies of my lord are dead ; 
All the Kalifs of all the West 
Bow and obey thy least behest ; 
The plains are dark with the mulberry- 
trees, 
The weavers are busy in Samarcand, 
The miners are sifting the golden sand. 
The divers plunging for pearls in the 

seas, 
And peace and plenty are in the land. 

** Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone. 
Rose in revolt against thy throne : 
His treasures are at thy palace-door, 
With the swords and the shaAvls and the 

jewels he wore ; 
His body is dust o'er the desert blown. 

** A mile outside of Baldacca's gate 

I left my forces to lie in wait. 

Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand. 

And forward dashed with a handful of 
men, 

To lure the old tiger from his den 

Into the ambush I had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm was 
spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs from 
within ; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike 
din 

The gates swung wide ; and we turned 
and fled ; 

And the garrison sallied forth and pur- 
sued, 

With the gray old Kalif at their head, 

And above them the banner of Moham- 
med : 

So we snared them all, and the town was 
subdued. 



"As in at the gate we rode, behold, 
A tower that is called the Tower of Gold ! 
For there the Kalif had hidden his 

wealth. 
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, 
Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 
And thither the miser crept by stealth 
To feel of the gold that gave him health, 
And to gaze and gloat with his hungi-y 

eye 
On jewels that gleamed like a glow- 
worm's spark. 
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 

" I said to the Kalif : ' Thou art old, 

Thou hast no need of so much gold. 

Thou shouldst not have heaped and hid- 
den it here, 

Till the breath of battle was hot and 
near, 

But have sown through the land these 
useless hoards 

To spring into shining blades of swords, 

And keep thine honor sweet and clear. 

These grains of gold are not grains of 
wheat ; 

These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; 

These jewels and pearls and precious 
stones 

Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 

Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 

From climbing the stairways of thy 
tower ! * 

"Then into his dungeon I locked the 

drone. 
And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive : 
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of 

stone, 
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 

" When at last we unlocked the door, 
We found him dead upon the floor ; 
The rings had dropped from his Avithered 

hands, 
His teeth were like bones in the desert 

sands : 
Still clutching his treasure he had died ; 
And as he lay there, he appeared 
A statue of gold with a silver beard, 
His arms outstretched as if crucified." 

This is the story, strange and true, 

That the great captain Alau 

Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 



THE COBBLER OF HAGENA.U. 



277 



When he rode that day into Kambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 

INTERLUDE. 

I THOUGHT before your tale began," 
The Student murmured, "we should 

have 
(Some legend written by Judah Rav 
(In his Geniara of Babylon ; 
Or something from the Gulistan, — 
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, 
Or of that King of Khorasan 
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one 
That had a hundred years been dead 
Still moving restless in his head, 
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust 
Of power, though all the rest was dust. 

" But lo ! your glittering caravan 
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan 
Hath led us farther to the East 
Into the regions of Cathay. 
Spite of your Kalif and his gold, 
Pleasant has been the tale you told, 
And full of color ; that at least 
No one will question or gainsay. 
And yet on such a dismal day 
We need a merrier tale to clear 
The dark and heavy atmosphere. 
So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, 
Without a preface, what befell 
A simple cobbler, in the year — 
No matter ; it was long ago ; 
And that is all we need to know." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. 

I TRUST that somewhere and somehow 
You all have heard of Hagenau, 
A quiet, quaint, and ancient town 
Among the green Alsatian hills, 
A place of valleys, streams, and mills, 
Where Barbarossa's castle, brown 
With rust of centuries, still looks down 
On the broad, drowsy land below, — 
On shadowy forests filled with game, 
And the blue river winding slow 
Through meadows, where the hedges 

grow 
That give this little town its name. 

It happened in the good old times, 
While yet the Master-singers filled 



The noisy workshop and the guild 
With various melodies and rhymes, 
That here in Hagenau there dwelt 
A cobbler, — one who loved debate, 
And, arguing from a postulate, 
Would say what others only felt ; 
A man of forecast and of thrift. 
And of a shrewd and careful mind 
In this world's business, but inclined 
Somewhat to let the next world drift. 

Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, 
And Regenbogen's rhymes of love, 
For their poetic fame had spread 
Even to the town of Hagenau ; 
And some Quick Melody of the Plough, 
Or Double Harmony of the Dove, 
Was always running in his head. 
He kept, moreover, at his side. 
Among his leathers and his tools, 
Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, 
Or Eulenspiegel, open wide ; 
With these he was much edified : 
He thought them wiser than the Schools. 

His good wife, full of godly fear. 
Liked not these worldly themes to hear ; 
The Psalter was her book of songs ; 
The only music to her ear 
Was that which to the Church belongs. 
When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, 
And the two angels carved in wood. 
That by the windy organ stood. 
Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, 
And all the echoes, far and near. 
Gibbered as if the church were haunted. 
Outside his door, one afternoon, 
This humble votary of the muse 
Sat in the narrow strip of shade 
By a projecting cornice made, 
Mending the Burgomaster's shoes. 
And singing a familiar tune : — 

* ' Our ingress into the world 

Was naked and bare ; 
Our progress through the world 

Is trouble and care ; 
Our egress from the world 

Will be nobody knows where ■ 
But if we do well here 

We shall do well there ; 
And I could tell you no more. 

Should I preach a whole year ! " 

Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; 
And with his gestures marked the 
time 



278 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Closiiig together with a jerk 

Of his waxed thread the stitch and 

rhyme. 
Meanwhile his quiet little dame 
Was leaning o'er the window-sill, 
Eager, excited, but mouse-still, 
Gazing imj^atiently to see 
AVhat the great throng of folk might be 
That onward in procession came, 
Along the unfrequented street, 
With horns that blew, and drums that 

beat. 
And banners flying, and the flame 
Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet 
Voices of nuns ; and as they sang 
Suddenly all the church- bells rang. 

In a gay coach, above the crowd. 
There sat a monk in ample hood. 
Who with liis right hand held aloft 
A red and ponderous cross of wood, 
To which at times he meekly bowed. 
In front three horsemen rode, and oft, 
With voice and air importunate, 
A boisterous herald cried aloud : 
" The grace of God is at your gate ! " 
So onward to the church they passed. 

The cobbler slowly turned his last. 
And, wagging his sagacious head, 
Unto his kneeling housewife said : 
" 'T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard 
The cawings of that reverend bird. 
Don't let him cheat you of your gold ; 
Indulgence is not bought and sold." 

The church of Hagenau, that night. 
Was full of peoi^le, full of light ; 
An odor of incense filled the air. 
The priest intoned, the organ groaned 
Its inarticulate despair ; 
The candles on the altar blazed, 
And full in front of it upraised 
The red cross stood against the glare. 
I Below, upon the altar-rail 
Indulgences were set to sale, 
Like ballads at a country fair. 
A heavy strong-box, iron-bound 
And carved with many a quaint device, 
Received, with a melodious sound. 
The coin that purchased Paradise. 

Then from the pulpit overhead, 
Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow. 
Thundered upon the crowd below. 
•* Good people all, draw near ! " he 
said ; 



" Purchase these letters, signed and 

sealed. 
By which all sins, though unrevealed 
And unrepented, are forgiven ! 
Count but the gain, count not the loss 
Your gold and silver are but dross. 
And yet they pave the way to heaven. 
I hear your mothers and your sires 
Cry from their purgatorial fires, 
And will ye not their ransom pay ? 

senseless people ! when the gate 
Of heaven is open, will ye wait ? 
Will ye not enter in to-day ? 
To-morrow it will be too late ; 

1 shall be gone upon my way. 

Make haste ! bring money while ye may !" 

The women shuddered, and turned 

pale ; 
Allured by hope or driven by fear, 
With many a sob and many a tear, 
All crowded to the altar-rail. 
Pieces of silver and of gold 
Into the tinkling strong-box fell 
Like pebbles dropped into a well ; 
And soon the ballads were all sold. 
The cobbler's wife among the rest 
Slipped into the capacious chest 
A golden florin ; then withdrew, 
Hiding the paper in her breast ; 
And homeward through the darkness 

went 
Comforted, quieted, content ; 
She did not walk, she rather flew, 
A dove that settles to her nest, 
When some appalling bird of prey 
That scared her has been driven away. 

The days went by, the monk was gone, 
The summer passed, the winter came ; 
Though seasons changed, yet still the 

same 
The daily round of life went on ; 
The daily round of household care, 
The narrow life of toil and prayer. 
But in her heart the cobbler's dame 
Had now a treasure beyond price, 
A secret joy without a name. 
The certainty of Paradise. 
Alas, alas ! Dust unto dust ! 
Before the winter wore away. 
Her body in the churchyard lay. 
Her patient soul was with the Just 1 
After her death, among the things 
That even the poor preserve with 

care, — ^ 

Some little trinkets and cheap nngs. 



INTEKLUDE. 



27^ 



A locket witli her mother's hair, 
Her wedding gown, the f\ided flowers 
She wore upon her wedding day, — 
Among these memories of past hours, 
That so much of the heart reveal. 
Carefully kept and put away. 
The Letter of Indulgence lay 
Folded, with signature and seal. 

Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and 

pained. 
Waited and wondered that no word 
Of mass or requiem he heard, 
As by the Holy Church ordained : 
Then to the Magistrate complained. 
That as this woman had been dead 
A week or more, and no mass said, 
It was rank heresy, or at least 
Contempt of Church ; thus said the 

Priest ; 
And straight the cobbler was arraigned. 

He came, confiding in his cause. 
But rather doubtful of the laws. 
The Justice from his elbow-chair 
Gave him a look that seemed to say : 
"Thou standest before a Magistrate, 
Therefore do not prevaricate ! " 
Then asked him in a business way. 
Kindly but cold : '* Is thy wife dead?" 
The cobbler meekly bowed his head ; 
" She is," came struggling from his 

throat 
Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote 
The words down in a book, and then 
Continued, as he raised his pen : 
" She is ; and hath a mass been said 
For the salvation of her soul ? 
Come, speak the truth ! confess the 

whole ! " 
The cobbler without pause replied : 
" Of mass or prayer there was no need ; 
For at the moment when she died 
Her soul was with the glorified ! " 
And from his pocket with all speed 
^He drew the priestly title-deed. 
And prayed the Justice he would read. 

The Justice read, amused, amazed ; 
And as he read his mirth increased ; 
At times his shaggy brows he raised, 
Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, 
Now archly at the angry Priest. 
" From all excesses, sins, and crimes 
Thou hast committed in past times 
Thee I absolve ! And furthermore, 
Purified from all earthly taints. 



To the conmrnixion of the Saints 
And to the sacraments restore ! 
All stains of weakness, and all trace 
Of shame and censure I efface ; 
Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, 
And make thee innocent and pure, 
So that in dying, unto thee 
The gates of heaven shall open be ! 
Though long thou livest, yet this gmee 
Until the moment of thy death 
Unchangeable continueth ! " 

Then said he to the Priest : " I find 

This document is duly signed 

Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. 

At all tribunals in the land 

In evidence it may be used ; 

Therefore acquitted is the accused." 

Then to the cobbler turned: "My 
friend. 

Pray tell me, didst thou ever read 

Reynard the Fox?" — "0 yes, in- 
deed ! " — 

" I thought so. Don't forget the end." 



INTERLUDE. 

" What was the end ? I am ashamed 
Not to remember Reynard's fate ; 
I have not read the book of late ; 
Was he not hanged ? " the Poet said. 
The Student gravely shook his head. 
And answered ; " You exaggerate. 
There was a tournament proclaimed. 
And Reynard fought with Isegrim 
The Wolf, and having vanquished him, 
Rose to high honor in the State, 
And Keeper of the Seals was named ! " 

At this the gay Sicilian laughed : 
"Fight fire with fire, and craft with 

craft ; 
Successful cunning seems to be 
The moral of your tale," said he. 
" Mine had a better, and the Jew's 
Had none at all, that I could see ; 
His aim was only to amuse." 

Meanwhile from out its ebon case 
His violin the Minstrel drew, 
And having tuned its strings anew. 
Now held it close in his embrace, 
And poising in his outstretched hand 
The bow, like a magician's wand, 
He paused, and said, with beaming face-. 
" Last night my story was too long ; 



280 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE LVN. 



To-day I give you but a song, 

^n old tradition of the Nortli •, 

But first, to put you in the mood, 

I will a little while prelude. 

And from this instrument draw forth 

Something by way of overture." 

He played ; at first the tones were pure 

And tender as a summer night, 

The full moon climbing to her height. 

The sob and rip])le of the seas. 

The flapping of an idle sail ; 

And then by sudden and sharp degrees 

The multiplied, wild harmonies 

Freshened and burst into a gale ; 

A tempest howling through the dark, 

A crash as of some shipwrecked bark. 

A loud and melancholy wail. 

Such was the prelude to the tale 
Told by the Minstrel ; and at times 
He paused amid its varying rhymes, 
And at each pause again broke in 
The music of his violin, 
"With tones of sweetness or of fear. 
Movements of trouble or of calm, 
Creating their own atmosphere ; 
As sitting in a church we hear 
Between the verses of the psalm 
The organ playing soft and clear. 
Or thundering on the startled ear. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 



At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 

"Within the sandy bar. 
At sunset of a summer's day. 
Ready for sea, at anchor lay 

The good ship Valdemar. 

The sunbeams danced upon the waves. 

And played along her side ; 
And through the cabin windows 

streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that seemed 

The ripple of the tide. 

There sat the captain with his friends, 
Old skippers brown and hale, 

Who smoked and grumbled o'er their 

^ ^ grog. 

And talked of iceberg and of fog, 
Of calm and storm and gale. 



And one was spinning a sailor's yarn 

About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea ; a spright 
Invisible to mortal sight. 

Who o'er the rigging ran. 

Sometimes he hammered in the hold, 

Sometimes upon the mast, 
Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, 
Or at the bows he sang and laughed, 

And made all tight and fast. 

He helped the sailors at their work, 

And toiled with jovial din ; 
He helped them hoist and reef the sails. 
He helped them stow the casks and 
bales, 

And heave the anchor in. 

But woe unto the lazy louts, 

The idlers of the crew ; 
Them to torment was his delight, 
And worry them by day and night. 

And pinch them black and blue. 

And woe to him whose mortal eyes 

Klaboterman behold. 
It is a certain sign of death ! — 
The cabin-boy here held his breath. 

He felt his blood run cold. 



The jolly skipper paused awhile, 

And then again began ; 
" There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, 
' ' A ship of the Dead that sails the sea. 

And is called the Carmilhan. 

' ' A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, 

In tempests she appears ; 
And before the gale, or against the p-ale^ 
She sails without a rag of sail, 

Without a helmsman steers. 

" She haunts the Atlantic north anu 
south. 
But mostly the mid-sea. 
Where three great rocks rise bleak and 

bare 
Like furnace-chimneys in the air, 
And are called the Chimneys Three. 

" And ill betide the luckless ship 
That meets the Carmilhan ; 



THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 



281 



Over her decks the seas will leap, 

She must go down into the deep, 

And perish mouse and man." 

The captain of the Valdemar 

Laughed loud with merry heart. 
"I should like to see this ship," said 

he; 
* ' I should like to find these Chimneys 
Three, 
That are marked down in the chart. 

" I have sailed right over the spot," he 
said, 
" With a good stiff breeze behind, 
When the sea was blue, and the sky was 

clear, — 
You can follow my course by these pin- 
holes here, — 
And never a rock could find." 

And then he swore a dreadful oath, 

He swore by the Kingdoms Three, 
That, should he meet the Oarmilhan, 
He would run her down, although he ran 
Right into Eternity ! 

All this, while passing to and fro, 

The cabin-boy had heard ; 
He lingered at the door to hear, 
And drank in all with gi'eedy ear, 

And pondered every word. 

He was a simple country lad, 

But of a roving mind. 
"0, it must be like heaven," thought 

he, 
* ' Those far-off foreign lands to see. 

And fortune seek and find ! " 

But in the fo'castle, when he heard 

The mariners blaspheme. 
He thought of home, he thought of God, 
And his mother under the churchyard 
sod. 

And wished it were a dream. 

One friend on board that ship had he ; 

'T was the Klaboterman, 
Who saw the Bible in his chest. 
And made a sign upon his breast, 

All evil things to ban. 



The cabin windows have grown blank 
As eyeballs of the dead ; 



No more the glancing sunbeams bum 
On the gilt letters of the stern, 
But on the figure-head ; 

On Valdemar Victorious, 

Who looketh with disdain 
To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side to side. 

And reunite again. 

'* It is the wind," those skippers said, 

' ' That swings the vessel so ; 
It is the wind ; it freshens fast, 
'T is time to say farewell at last, 
'T is time for us to go. " 

They shook the captain by the hand, 

" Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried ; 
Each face was like the setting sun, 
As, broad and red, they one by one 
Went o'er the vessel's side. 

The sun went down, the full moon rose, 

Serene o'er field and flood ; 
And all the winding creeks and bays 
And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze. 

The sky was red as blood. 

The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, 

As fair as wind could be ; 
Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar. 
With all sail set, the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 

The lovely moon climbs up the sky 

As one who walks in dreams ; 
A tower of marble in her light, 
A wall of black, a wall of white, 
The stately vessel seems. 

Low down upon the sandy coast 

The lights begin to burn ; 
And now, uplifted high in air, 
They kindle with a fiercer glare. 

And now drop far astern. 

The dawn appears, the land is gone, 

The sea is all around ; 
Then on each hand low hills of sand 
Emerge and form another land ; 

She steereth through the Sound. 

Through Kattegat and Skager-rack 

She flitteth like a ghost ; 
By day and night, by night and day, 
She bounds, she flies upon her way 

Along the English coast. 



282 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 

Cape Finisterre is past ; 
Into the open ocean stream 
She floats, the vision of a dream 

Too beautiful to last. 

Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 

There is no land in sight ; 
The liquid planets overhead 
Burn brighter now the moon is dead. 
And longer stays the night. 



And now along the horizon's edge 

Mountains of cloud uprose. 
Black as with forests underneath, 
Above their sharp and jagged teeth 

Were white as drifted snows. 

Unseen behind them sank the sun, 

But flushed each snowy peak 
A little while with rosy light 
That faded slowly from the sight 
As blushes from the cheek. 

Black grew the sky, — all black, aU 
black ; 

The clouds were everywhere ; 
There was a feeling of suspense 
In nature, a mysterious sense 

Of terror in the air. 

And all on board the Valdemar 

Was still as still could be ; 
Save when the dismal ship-beU tolled. 
As ever and anon she rolled, 

And lurched into the sea. 

The captain up and down the deck 

Went striding to and fro ; 
Now watched the compass at the wheel, 
Now lifted up his hand to feel 

Which way the wind might blow. 

And now he looked up at the sails, 

And now upon the deep ; 
In erery fibre of his frame 
He felt the storm before it came, 

He had no thought of sleep. 

Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft, 

With a great rush of rain, 
Making the ocean white with spume, 
In darkness like the day of doom, 

On came the hurricane. 



The lightning flashed from cloud to 
cloud. 

And rent the sky in two ; 
A jagged flame, a single jet 
Of white fire, like a bayonet. 

That pierced the eyeballs through. 

Then all around was dark again, 

And blacker than before ; 
But in that single flash of light 
He had beheld a fearful sight. 

And thought of the oath he swore. 

For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, 

The ghostly Carmilhan ! 
Her masts were stripped, her yards were 

bare, 
And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 

Sat the Klaboterman. 

Her crew of ghosts was all on deck 
Or clambering up the shrouds ; 

The boatswain's whistle, the captain's 
hail, 

Were like the piping of the gale. 
And thunder in the clouds. 

And close behind the Carmilhan 

There rose up from the sea. 
As from a foundered ship of stone, 
Three bare and splintered masts alone : 

They were the Chimneys Three. 

And onward dashed the Valdemar 

And leaped into the dark ; 
A denser mist, a colder blast, 
A little shudder, and she had passed 

Eight through the Phantom Bark. 

She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, 

But cleft it unaware ; 
As when, careering to her nest. 
The sea-gull severs with her breast 

The unresisting air. 

Again the lightning flashed ; again 

They saw the Carmilhan, 
Whole as before in hull and spar ; 
But now on board of the Valdemar 

Stood the KlaboteiTOan. 

And they all knew their doom was sealed ; 

They knew that death was near ; 
Some prayed who never jjrayed before, 
And some they wept, and some they 
swore, 

And some were mute with fear. 



LADY WENTWORTH. 



283 



Then suddenly there came a shock, 

And louder than wind or sea 
A cry burst from the crew on deck, 
As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless 
■wi-eck, 
Upon the Chimneys Three. 

The storm and night were passed, the 
light 

To streak the east began ; 
The cabin-boy, picked up at sea. 
Survived the wreck, and only he, 

To tell of the Carmilhan. 



INTERLUDE. 

When the long murmur of applause 

That greeted the Musician's lay 

Had slowly buzzed itself away. 

And the long talk of Spectre Ships 

That followed died upon their lips 

And came unto a natural pause, 

' * These tales you tell are one and all 

Of the Old World," the Poet said, 

" Flowers gathered from a crumbling 

wall. 
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; 
Let me present you in their stead 
Something of our New England earth, 
A tale which, though of no great worth, 
Has still this merit, that it yields 
A certain freshness of the iields, 
A sweetness as of home-made bread." 

The Student answered : " Be discreet ; 
For if the flour be fresh and sound, 
And if the bread be light and sweet, 
Who careth in what mill 't was ground, 
Or of what oven felt the heat, 
Unless, as old Cervantes said, 
You are looking after better bread 
Than any that is made of wheat ? 
You know that people nowadays 
To what is old give little praise ; 
All must be new in prose and verse : 
They want hot bread, or something 

worse, 
Fresh every morning, and half baked ; 
The wholesome bread of yesterday. 
Too stale for them, is thrown away, 
Nor is their thirst with water slaked. 

As oft we see the sky in May 
Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, 
The Poet's face, before so gay. 



Was clouded with a look of pain, 
But suddenly brightened up again ; 
And without further let or stay 
He told his tale of yesterday. 



THE POET'S TALE. 

LADY WENTWORTH. 

One hundred years ago, and something 

more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tav- 
ern door, 
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, 
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking 

nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
In scarlet coat and periv/ig of flax, 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, 
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded 

arms. 
And half resolved, though he was past 

his prime. 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time. 
To fall down at her feet, and to declare 
The passion that had driven him to 

despair. 
For from his lofty station he had seen 
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle- 
green, 
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four 

in hand, 
Down the long lane, and otit into the 

land. 
And knew that he was far upon the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 
Were interrupted by a little girl. 
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, 
Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders 

bare, 
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon. 
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 
A creature men would worship and adore. 
Though now in mean habiliments she 

bore 
A pail of water, dripping, through the 

street. 
And bathing, as • she went, her naked 

feet. 

It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — 
The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; 



284 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The swaying motion, as she hurried by ; 
The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, 
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and 

glanced. 
As in her pail the shifting sunbeam 

danced : 
And with uncommon feelings of delight 
The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. 
Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her 

say 
These words, or thought he did, as plain 

as day : 
* ' Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you 

go 
About the town half dressed, and looking 

so ! " 
At which the gypsy laughed, and straight 

replied : 
** No-ipatter how I look ; I yet shall ride 
In my 'own chariot, ma'am." And on 

the child 
The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, 
As with her heavy burden she passed on. 
Looked back, then turned the corner, 

and was gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day. 

Arrested his attention was a gay 

And brilliant equipage, that flashed and 

spun, 
The silver harness glittering in the sun. 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and 

lank. 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and 

sank. 
While all alone within the chariot sat 
A portly person with three-cornered hat, 
A crimson velvet coat, head high in air. 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered 

hair. 
And diamond buckles sparkling at his 

knees. 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it 

passed. 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and 

fast ; 
For this was Governor Wen tworth, driv- 
ing down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, 
Where his Great House stood looking 

out to sea, 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 

It was a pleasant mansion, an abode 
Near and yet hidden from the great high- 
road. 



Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 

Baronial and colonial in its style ; 

Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, 

And stacks of chimneys rising high in 
air, — 

Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that 
blew 

Made mournful music the whole winter 
through. 

Within, unwonted splendors met the 
eye, 

Panels, and floors of oak, and tapes- 
try ; 

Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen 
dogs 

Revelled and roared the Christmas fires 
of logs ; 

Doors opening into darkness unawares. 

Mysterious passages, and flights of 
stairs ; 

And on the walls, in heavy gilded 
frames. 

The ancestral Wentworths with Old- 
Scripture names. 

Such was the mansion where the great 

man dwelt, 
A widower and childless : and he 

felt 
The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom. 
That like a presence haunted every 

room ; 
For though not given to weakness, he 

could feel 
The pain of wounds, that ache because 

they heal. 

The years came and the years went, — 

seven in all, 
And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er 

the Hall ; 
The dawns their splendor through its 

chambers shed. 
The sunsets flushed its western windows 

red ; 
The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the 

rain ; 
Its woodlands were in leaf and bare 

again ; 
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs 

bloomed and died. 
In the broad river ebbed and flowed Hie 

tide, 
Ships went to sea, and ships came home 

from sea. 
And the slow years sailed by and ceased 

to be. 



LADY WENTWORTH. 



285 



And all these years had Martha Hilton 
served 

In the Great House, not wholly unob- 
served : 

By day, by night, the silver crescent 
grew, 

Though hidden by clouds, her light 
still shining through ; 

A maid of all work, whether coarse or 
fine, 

A servant who made service seem divine ! 

Through her each room was fair to look 
upon ; 

The mirrors glisteiied, and the brasses 
shone, 

The very knocker on the outer door. 

If she but passed, was brighter than be- 
fore. 

And now the ceaseless turning of the 
mill 

Of Time, that never for an hour stands 
still, 

Ground out the Governor's sixtieth 
birthday, 

And powdered his brown hair with sil- 
ver-gray. 

The robin, the forerunner of the spring, 

The bluebird with his jocund carolling, 

The restless swallows building in the 



The golden buttercups, the grass, the 

leaves. 
The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, 
All v/elcomed this majestic holiday ! 
He gave a splendid banquet, served on 

plate. 
Such as became the Governor of the 

State, 
Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and 

peers, — 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the 

Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the 

rest ; 
For why repeat the name of every 

guest ? 
But I must mention one, in bands and 

gown. 
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur 
^ Brown 

Of the Established Church ; with smil- 
ing face 
He sat beside the Governor and said 

grace ; 



And then the feast went on, as others do, 
But ended as none other I e'er knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with 

many a cheer. 
The Governor whispered in a servant's 

ear. 
Who disappeared, and presently there 

stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed,, 
Youthful and beautiful, and simply 

dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton? It must 

be! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty 

years. 
How ladylike, how queenlike she ap- 
pears ; 
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone 

by 
Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she 

was there. 
Until the Governor, rising from his 

chair, 
Played slightly with his ruffles, then 

looked down. 
And said unto the Reverend Arthur 

Brown : 
" This is my birthday : it shall likewise 

be 
My wedding-day ; and you shall marry 

me ! " 

The listening guests were greatly mysti- 
fied. 

None more so than the rector, who re- 
plied : 

** Marry you? Yes, that were a pleas- 
ant task. 

Your Excellency ; but to whom ? 1 
ask." 

The Governor answered : "To this lady 
here " ; 

And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw 
near. 

She came and stood, all blushes, at his 
side. 

The rector paused. The impatient Gov- 
ernor cried : 

** This is the lady ; do you hesitate ? 

Then I command you as Chief Magis- 
trate." 

The rector read the service loud and 
clear ; 



286 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



" Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," 
And so on to the end. At his command 
On the fourth linger of her fair left hand 
The Governor placed the ring ; and that 

was all : 
Martha was Lady "Went worth of the 

HaU! 



INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased the audience heard the 

tale. 
The Theologian said : " Indeed, 
To praise you there is little need ; 
One almost hears the farmer's flail 
Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail 
A certain freshness, as you said. 
And sweetness as of home-made bread. 
But not less sweet and not less fresh 
Are many legends that I know. 
Writ by the monks of long-ago. 
Who loved to mortify the flesh, 
So that the soul might purer grow. 
And rise to a diviner state ; 
And one of these — perhaps of all 
Most beautiful — I now recall, 
And with permission will narrate ; 
Hoping thereby to make amends 
For that grim tragedy of mine, 
As strong and black as Spanish wine, 
I told last night, and wish almost 
It had remained untold, my friends ; 
For Torquemada's awful ghost 
Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, 
And in the darkness glared and gleamed 
Like a great lighthouse on the coast." 

The Student laughing said : " Far more 

Like to some dismal fire of bale 

Flaring portentous on a hill ; 

Or torches lighted on a shore 

By wreckers in a midnight gale. 

No matter ; be it as you will, 

Only go forward with your tale." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

" Habst thou stayed, I must have 

fled ! " 
That is what the Vision said. 

In his chamber all alone, 
Kneeling on the floor of stone, 



Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 
For his sins of indecision, 
Prayed for greater self-denial 
In temptation and in trial ; 
It was noonday by the dial, 
And the Monk was all alone. 

Suddenly, as if it lightened, 
An unwonted splendor brightened 
All within him and without him 
In that narrow cell of stone ; 
And he saw the Blessed Vision 
Of our Lord, with light Elysian 
Like a vesture wrapped about him, 
Like a garment round him thrown. 

Not as crucified and slain. 
Not in agonies of pain. 
Not with bleeding hands and feet, 
Did the Monk his Master see ; 
But as in the village street. 
In the house or harvest-held. 
Halt and lame and blind he healed, 
When he walked in Galilee. 

In an attitude imploring, 
Hands upon his bosom crossed, 
Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reign 

est, 
Who am I, that thus thou deignest 
To reveal thyself to me ? 
Who am I, that from the centre 
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 
This poor cell, my guest to be ? 

Then amid his exaltation. 
Loud the convent bell appalling. 
From its belfry calling, calling. 
Rang through court and corridor 
With persistent iteration 
He had never heard before. 
It was now the appointed hour 
When alike in shine or shower. 
Winter's cold or summer's heat. 
To the convent portals came 
All the blind and halt and lame, 
All the beggars of the street. 
For their daily dole of food 
Dealt them by the brotherhood ; 
And their almoner was he 
Who upon his bended knee. 
Rapt in silent ecstasy 
Of divinest self-surrender. 
Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 



INTERLUDE. 



287 



Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 
Should he go, or should he stay ? 
Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 
Till the Vision passed away ? 
Should he slight his radiant guest, 
Slight this visitant celestial, 
For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 
Would the Vision there remain ? 
Would the Vision come again ? 
Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 
As if to the outward ear : 
" Do thy duty ; that is best ; 
Leave unto thy Lord the rest ! " 

Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 
On the Blessed Vision bent, 
Slowly from his cell departed. 
Slowly on his errand went. 

At the gate the poor were waiting. 
Looking through the iron grating, 
With that terror in the eye 
That is only seen in those* 
Who amid their wants and woes 
Hear the sound of doors that close. 
And of feet that pass them by ; 
Grown familiar with disfavor. 
Grown familiar with the savor 
Of the bread by which men die ! 
But to-day, they knew not why, 
Like the gate of Paradise 
Seemed the convent gate to rise. 
Like a sacrament divine 
Seemed to them the bread and wine. 
In his heart the IMonk was praying. 
Thinking of the homeless poor, 
What they suffer and endure ; 
What we see not, what we see ; 
And the inward voice was saying ; 
* ' Whatsoever thing thou doest 
To the least of mine and lowest. 
That thou doest unto me ! " 

Unto me ! but had the Vision 
Come to him in beggar's clothing, 
Come a mendicant imploring. 
Would he then have knelt adoring, 
Or have listened with derision. 
And have turned away with loathing « 

Thus his conscience put the question. 
Full of troublesome suggestion, 



[ As at length, with hurried pace. 
Towards his cell he turned his face, 
And beheld the convent bright 
With a supernatural light, 
Like a luminous cloud expanding 
Over floor and wall and ceiling. 

But he paused with awe-struck feeling 
At the threshold of his door. 
For the Vision still was standing 
As he left it there before. 
When the convent bell appalling, 
From its belfry calling, calling. 
Summoned him to feed the poor. 
Through the long hour intervening 
It had waited his return. 
And he felt his bosom burn. 
Comprehending all the meaning. 
When the Blessed Vision said, 
"Hadst thou stayed, I must hav6 
fled ! " 



INTERLUDE. 

All praised the Legend more or less ; 

Some liked the moral, some the verse ; 

Some thought it better, and some worse 

Than other legends of the past ; 

Until, with ill-concealed distress 

At all their cavilling, at last 

The Theologian gravely said : 

' ' The Spanish proverb, then, is right ; 

Consult your friends on what you do, 

And one will say that it is white. 

And others say that it is red." 

And " Amen ! " quoth the Spanish Jew. 

" Six stories told ! We must have 

seven, 
A cluster like the Pleiades, 
And lo ! it happens, as with these. 
That one is missing from our heaven. 
Where is the Landlord? Bring him 

here ; 
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." 

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went 
Forthwith to seek his missing star. 
But did not find him in the bar, 
A place that landlords most frequent, 
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire. 
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall ; 
It was in vain to ask or call, 
There were no tidings of the Squire. 

So he came back with downcast head, 
Exclaiming : " Well, our bashful host 



288 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Hath surely given up the ghost. 
Another proverb says the dead 
Can tell no tales ; and that is true. 
It follows, then, that one of you 
Must tell a story in his stead. 
You must, " he to the Student said, 
' ' AVho know so many of the best, 
And tell them better than the rest." 

Straight, by these flattering words be- 
guiled. 
The Student, happy as a child 
When he is called a little man, 
Assumed the double task imposed. 
And without more ado unclosed 
His smiling lips, and thus began. 



THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE. 

THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 

Baron Castine of St. Castine 
Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, 
And sailed across the western seas. 
When he went away from his fair demesne 
The birds were building, the woods were 

green ; 
And now the winds of winter blow 
Eound the turrets of the old chateau. 
The birds are silent and unseen. 
The leaves lie dead in the ravine. 
And the Pyrenees are white with snow. 

His father, lonely, old, and gray, 
Sits by the fireside day by day, 
Thinking ever one thought of care ; 
Through the southern windows, narrow 

and tall. 
The sun shines into the ancient hall. 
And makes a glory round his hair. 
The house-dog, stretched beneath his 

chair, 
Groans in his sleep as if in pain, 
Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps 

again, 
So silent is it everywhere, — 
So silent you can hear the mouse 
Run and rummage along the beams 
Behind the wainscot of the wall ; 
And the old man rouses from his dreams. 
And wanders restless through the house, 
As if he heard strange voices call. 

His footsteps echo along the floor 
Of a distant passage, and pause awhile ; 
He is standing by an open door 
Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, 



Into the room of his absent son. 
There is the bed on which he lay, 
There are the pictures bright and gay, 
Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas ; 
There are his powder-flask and gun, 
And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan ; 
The chair by the window where he sat, 
With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, 
Looking out on the Pyrenees, 
Looking out on Mount Marbore 
And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. 
Ah me ! he turns away and sighs ; 
There is a mist before his eyes. 

At night, whatever the weather be, 
Wind or rain or starry heaven. 
Just as the clock is striking seven. 
Those who look from the windows see 
The village Curate, with lantern and 

maid. 
Come through the gateway from the park 
And cross the courtyard damp and 

dark, — 
A ring of light in a ring of shade. 

And now at the old man's side he stands, 
His voice is cheery, his heart expands, 
He gossips pleasantly, by tlie blaze 
Of the fire of fagots, about old days. 
And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, 
And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond. 
And what they did, and what they said, 
When they heard his Eminence was dead. 

And after a pause the old man says. 

His mind still coming back again 

To the one sad thought that haunts his 

brain, 
" Are there any tidings from over sea ? 
Ah, why has that wild boy gone from 

me?" 
And the Curate answers, looking down. 
Harmless and docile as a lamb, 
" Young blood ! young blood ! It must 

so be ! " 
And draws from the pocket of his gown 
A handkerchief like an oriflamb. 
And wipes his spectacles, and they play 
Their little game of lansquenet 
In silence for an hour or so, 
Till the clock at nine strikes loud and 

clear 
From the village lying asleep below, 
And across the courtyard, into the dark 
Of the winding pathway in the park. 
Curate and lantern disappear. 
And darkness reigns in the old chateau. 



THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 



289 



The ehip has come back from over 

sea, 
She has been signalled from below, 
And into the harbor of Bordeaux 
She sails with her gallant company. 
But among them is nowhere seen 
The brave young Baron of St. Castine ; 
He hath tarried behind, I ween. 
In the beautiful land of Acadie ! 

And the father paces to and fro 
Through the chambers of the old chateau, 
Waiting, waiting to liear the hum 
Of wheels on the road that runs below, 
Of servants hurrying here and there, 
The voice in the courtyard, the step on 

the stair. 
Waiting for some one who doth not 

come ! 
But letters there are, which the old man 

reads 
To the Curate, when he comes at night, 
Word by word, as an acolyte 
Repeats his prayers and tells his beads ; 
Letters full of the rolling sea, 
Full of a young man's joy to be 
Abroad iii the world, alone and free ; 
Full of adventures and wonderful scenes 
Of hunting the deer through forests 

vast 
In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast ; 
Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines ; 
Of Madocawando the Indian chief. 
And his daughters, glorious as queens. 
And beautiful beyond belief ; 
And so soft the tones of their native 

tongue. 
The words are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Curate listens, and smiling says : 
"Ah yes, dear friend ! in our young days 
We should have liked to hunt the deer 
All day amid those forest scenes, 
And to sleep in the tents of the Tarra- 
tines ; 
But now it is better sitting here 
Within four Avails, and without the fear 
Of losing our hearts to Indian queens ; 
For man is fire and wom.i'i is tow. 
And the Somebody comes and begins to 

blow." 
Then a gleam of distrust and vague sur- 
mise 
Shines in the father's gentle eyes, 
As fire-light on a window-pane 
Glimmers and vanishes again ; 
But naught he answers ; he only sighs, 
19 



And for a moment bows his head ; 
Then, as their custom is, they play 
Their little game of lansquenet, 
And another day is with the dead. 

Another day, and many a day 
And many a week and month depart, 
When a fatal letter wings its way 
Across the sea, like a bird of prey. 
And strikes and tears the old man's 

heart. 
Lo ! the young Baron of St. Castine, 
Swift as the wind is, and as wild. 
Has married a dusky Tarratine, 
Has married Madocawando' s child ! 

The letter drops from the father's hand ; 
Though the sinews of his heart are 

wrung, 
He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, 
No malediction falls from his tongue : 
But his stately figure, erect and grand, 
Bends and sinks like a column of sand 
In the whirlwind of his great despair. 
Dying, yes, dying ! His latest breath 
Of parley at the door of death 
Is a blessing on his wayward son. 
Lower and lower on his breast 
Sinks his gray head ; he is at rest ; 
No longer he waits for any one. 

For many a year the old chateau 
Lies tenantless and desolate ; 
Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, 
About its gables caws the crow ; 
Only the porter at the gate 
Is left to guard it, and to wait 
The coming of the riglitful heir ; 
No other life or sound is there ; 
No more the Curate comes at night, 
Xo more is seen the unsteady light. 
Threading the alleys of the park ; 
The windows of tlie hall are dark, 
The chambers dreary, cold, and bare ! 

At length, at last, when the winter is 

past. 
And birds are building, and woods are 

green, 
With flying skirts is the Curate seen 
Speeding along the woodland way. 
Humming gayly, " No day is so long 
But it comes at last to vesper-song." 
He sto])s at the porter's lodge to say 
That at last the Baron of St. Castine 
Is coming home with his Indian queen, 
Is coming without a week's delay ; 



290 



TALES OF A AV AY SIDE INN. 



And all the house must be swept and 

clean, 
And all things set in good array ! 
And the solemn porter shakes his head ; 
And the answer he makes is : " Laeka- 

day ! 
We will see, as the blind man said ! " 

Alert since first the day began. 
The cock upon the village church 
Looks northward from his airy perch, 
As if beyond the ken of man 
To see the ships come sailing on, 
And pass the Isle of Olerou, 
And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 

In the church below is cold in clay 
The heart that Avould have leaped for 

joy — 

tender heart of truth and trust ! — 
To see the coming of that day ; 
In the church below the lips are dust ; 
Dust are the hands, and dust the feet. 
That would have been so swift to meet 
The coming of that wayward boy. 

At night the front of the old chateau 
Is a blaze of light above and below ; 
There 's a sound of wheels and hoofs in 

the street, 
A cracking of whips, and scamper of 

feet, 
Bells are ringing, and horns are blown. 
And the Baron hath come again to his 

own. 
The Curate is waiting in the hall. 
Most eager and alive of all 
To welcome the Baron and Baroness ; 
But his mind is full of vague distress. 
For he hath read in Jesuit books 
Of those children of the wilderness. 
And now, good, simple man ! he looks 
To see a painted savage stride 
Into the room, with shoulders bare. 
And eagle feathers in her hair, 
And around her a robe of panther's hide. 

Instead, he beholds with secret shame 
A form of beauty undefined, 
A loveliness Avithout a name. 
Not of degree, but more of kind ; 
Nor bold nor sh}^ nor short nor tall. 
But a new mingling of them all. 
Yes, beautiful iDeyond belief, 
Transfigui-ed and transfused, he sees 
The lady of the Pyrenees, 
The daughter of the Indian chief. 



Beneath the shadow of her hair 

The gold-bronze color of the skin 

Seems lighted by a fire within, 

As when a burst of sunlight shines 

Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 

A dusky splendor in the air. 

The two small hands, that now are 

pressed 
In his, seem made to be caressed, 
They lie so warm and soft and still, 
Like birds half hidden in a nest, 
Trustful, and innocent of ill. 
And ah ! he cannot believe his ears 
When her melodious voice he hears 
Speaking his native Gascon tongue ; 
The words she utters seem to be 
Part of some poem of Goudouli, 
They are not spoken, they are sung ! 
And the Baron .smiles, and says, * ' You 

see, 
I told you but the simple truth ; 
Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth ! " 

Down in the \dllage day by day 
The people gossip in their way, 
And stare to see the Baroness pass 
On Sunday morning to early Mass ; 
And when she kneeleth down to pray, 
They wonder, and whisper together, and 

say, 
" Surely this is no heathen lass ! " 
And in course of time they learn to 

bless 
The Baron and the Baroness. 

And in course of time the Curate learns 
A secret so dreadful, that by turns 
He is ice and tire, he freezes and burns. 
The Baron at confession hath said. 
That though this Avoman be his wife. 
He hath wed her as the Indians wed, 
He hath bought her for a gun and a 

knife ! 
And the Curate replies : " profligate, 
Prodigal Son ! retuin once more 
To the open arms and the open door 
Of the Church, or ever it be too late. 
Thank God, thy father did not live 
To see what he could not forgive ; 
On thee, so reckless and perverse. 
He left his blessing, not his curse. 
But the nearer the dawn the darker tlie 

night. 
And by going wrong all things come 

right ; 
Things have been mended that were 

worse. 



FINALE. 



291 



And the worse, the nearer they are to 

mend. 
For the sake of the living and the dead, 
Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, 
And all things come to a happy end." 

sun, that followest the night, 
In yon blue sky, serene and pure. 
And pourest thine impartial light 
Alike on mountain and on moor, 
Pause for a moment in thy coui'se, 
And bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 
Gave, that from thy hidden source 
In yon mysterious mountain-side 
Pursuest thy wandering way alone, 
And leaping down its steps of stone. 
Along the meadow-lands demure 
Stealest away to the Ad our, 
Pause for a moment in thy course 
To bless the bridegroom and the bride ■ 

The choir is singing the matin cong, 
The doors of the church are opened 

wide, 
The people crowd, and press, and throng 
To see the bridegroom and the bride. 
They enter and pass along the nave ; 

[ They stand upon the father's grave ; 
The bells are ringing soft and slow ; 
The living above and the dead below 
Give their blessing on one and twain ; 

i The warm wind blows from the hills of 

^ Spain, 

The birds are building, the leaves are 

green, 
And Baron Castine of St. Castine 
Hath come at last to his own acrain. 



FINALE. 

* Nunc plaudite ! " the Student cried. 
When he had finished ; ' ' now applaud, 



As Roman actors used to say 

At the conclusion of a play " ; 

And rose, and spread his hands abroad. 

And smiling bowed from side to side, 

As one who bears the palm away. 

And generous was the applause and loud, 

But less for him than for the sun, 

That even as the tale was done 

Burst from its canopy of cloud, 

And lit the landscape with the blaze 

Of afternoon on autumn days, 

And filled the room with light, and 

made 
The fire of logs a painted shade. 

A sudden wind from out the west 
Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; 
The windows rattled with the blast, 
The oak-trees shouted as it passed, 
And straight, as if by fear possessed. 
The cloud encampment on the hill 
Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent 
Vanished into the firmament. 
And down the valley fled amain 
The rear of the retreating rain. 

Only far up in the blue sky 

A mass of clouds, like drifted snow 

Suff'used with a faint Alpine glow. 

Was lieaped together, vast and high, 

On which a shattered rainbow hung, 

Not rising like tlie ruined arch 

Of some aerial aqueduct, 

But like a roseate garland plucked 

From an Olympian god, and flung 

Aside in his triumphal march. 

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, 
Like birds escaping from a snare. 
Like school-boys at the hour of play, 
All left at once the pent-up room. 
And rushed into the open air ; 
And no more tales were told that day. 



292 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

PART THIRD. 



PRELUDE. 

The evening came ; the golden vane 
A moment in the sunset glanced, 
Then darkened, and then gleamed again, 
As from the east the moon advanced 
And touched it with a softer light ; 
"While underneath, with flowing mane, 
Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced. 
And galloped forth into the night. 

But brighter than the afternoon 
That followed the dark day of rain, 
And brighter than the golden vane 
That glistened in the rising moon. 
Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed ; 
And every separate window-pane, 
Backed by the outer darkness, showed 
A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed 
And flickered to and fro, and seemed 
A bonfire lighted in the road. 

Amid the hospitable glow, 
Like an old actor on the stage. 
With the uncertain voice of age, 
The singing chimney chanted low 
The homely songs of long ago. 

The voice that Ossian heard of yore, 

When midnight winds were in his hall 

A ghostly and appealing call, 

A sound of days that are no more ! 

And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, 

And listened to the sound, and knew 

The passing of the airy hosts, 

The gray a-.id misty cloud of ghosts 

In their interminable flight ; 

And listening muttered in his beard, 

With accent indistinct and weird, 

*' Who are ye, children of the Night ? " 

Beholding his mysterious face, 
" Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, 
" Why was it that in breaking bread 
At supper, you bent down your head 
And, musing, paused a little space. 
As one who says a silent grace ? " 

The Jew replied, with solemn air,, 
*' I said tlie Manichscan's prayer. 
It was his faith, — perhaps is mine, — 
That life in all its forms is one, 
And that its secret conduits run 



Unseen, but in unbroben line. 
From the great fountain-head divine 
Through man and beast, through grain 

and grass. 
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry. 
From death there can be no escape, 
And no escape from life, alas ! 
Because we cannot die, but pass 
From one into another shape : 
It is but into life we die. 

" Therefore the Manichsean said 
This simple prayer on breaking bread, 
Lest he with hasty hand or knife 
Might wound the incarcerated life, 
The soul in things that we call dead : 
' I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, 
I did not thrash thee, did not gi'ind 

thee, 
Nor did I in the oven bake thee 1 
It was not I, it was another 
Did these things unto thee, brother ; 
I only have thee, hold thee, brejik 

thee ! ' " 

" That birds have souls I can concede," 
The poet cried, with glowing cheeks ; 
"The flocks that from their beds of reed 
Uprising north or southward fly, 
And flying write upon the sky 
The biforked letter of the Greeks, 
As hath been said by Rucellai ; 
All birds that sing or chirp or cry, 
Tven those migratory bands, 
'i he minor poets of the air. 
The plover, peep, and sanderling, 
That hardly can be said to sing. 
But pipe along the barren sands, — 
All these have souls akin to ours ; 
So hath the lovely race of flowers : 
Thus much I grant, but nothing more. 
The rusty hinges of a door 
Are not alive because they creak ; 
This chimney, Avith its dreary roar, 
These rattling windows, do not speak ! ' 
" To me they speak," the Jew replied ; 
" And in the sounds that sink and soar, 
I hear the voices of a tide 
That breaks upon an unknown shore ! " 

Here the Sicilian interfered : 
"That was your dream, then, as you 
dozed 



INTERLUDE. 



293 



A moment since, with eyes half-closed, 
And murmured something in your 

beard." 
The Hebrew smiled, and answered, 

-Nay; 
Not that, but something very near ; 
Like, and yet not the same, may seem 
The vision of my waking dream ; 
Before it wholly dies away. 
Listen to me, and you shall hear." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 



King Solomon, before his palace gate 
At evening, on the pavement tessellate 
Was walking with a stranger from the 

East, 
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast. 
The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man. 
And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. 
And as they walked the guest became 

aware 
Of a white figure in the twilight air, 
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise 
His form and features seemed to recog- 
nize ; 
And in a whisper to the king he said : 
" What is yon shape, that, pallid as the 

dead. 
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace 
In the dim light the features of my face V 

The king looked, and replied : "I know 

him well ; 
It is the Angel men call Azrael, 
'T is the Death Angel ; what hast thou 

to fear?" 
And the guest answered: "Lest he 

should come near, 
And speak to me, and take away my 

breath ! 
Save me from Azrael, save me from 

death ! 
king, that hast dominion o'er the wind. 
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind." 

The king gazed upward at the cloudless 

sky. 
Whispered a word, and raised his hand 

on high, 
And lo ! the signet-ring of chrysoprase 
On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze 
With hidden fire, and rushing from the 

west 



There came a mighty wind, and seized 
the guest 

And lifted him from earth, and on they 
passed. 

His shining garments streaming in the 
blast, 

A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, 

A purple cloud, that gleamed and disap- 
peared. 

Then said the Angel, smiling : "If this 
man 

Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, 

Thou hast done well in listening to his 
prayer ; 

I was upon my way to seek him there." 



INTERLUDE. 

" Edrehi, forbear to-night 
Your ghostly legends of affright, 
And let the Talmud rest in peace ; 
Spare us your dismal tales of death 
That almost take away one's breath ; 
So doing, may your tribe increase." 

Thus the Sicilian said ; then went 
And on the spinet's rattling keys 
Played Marianina, like a breeze 
From Naples and the Southern seas, 
That brings us the delicious scent 
Of citron and of orange trees, 
And memories of soft days of ease 
At Capri and Amalfi spent. 

" Not so," the eager Poet said ; 

' ' At least, not so before I tell 

The story of my Azrael, 

An angel mortal as ourselves, 

Which in an ancient tome I found 

Upon a convent's dusty shelves, 

Chained with an iron chain, and bound 

In parchment, and with clasps of brass, 

Lest from its prison, some dark day. 

It might be stolen or steal away. 

While the good friars were singing mass, 

" It is a tale of Charlemagne, 

When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers 

And sweeps from mountain-crest to 

coast. 
With lightning flaming through its 

showers, 
He swept across the Lombard plain, 
Beleaguering with his warlike train 
Pavia, the country's pride and boast, 
The City of the Hundred Towers." 



294 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Aod thus in sober measure ran. 
THE POET'S TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 

King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower 

Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling 
plains, 

League after league of harvests, to the 
foot 

Of the snow- crested Alps, and saw ap- 
proach 

A mighty army, thronging all the 
roads 

That led into the city. And the 
King 

Said unto Olger, who had passed his 
youth 

As hostage at the court of France, and 
knew 

The Emperor's form and face : " Is 
Charlemagne 

Among that host ? " And Olger an- 
swered : ** No." 

And still the innumerable multitude 
Flowed onward and increased, until the 

King 
Cried in amazement: "Surely Charle- 
magne 
Is coming in the midst of all these 

knights ! " 
And Olger answered slowly : "No ; not 

. yet ; 
He will not come so soon." Then much 

disturbed 
King Desiderio asked : " AVhat shall we 

do, 
If he approach with a still greater 

army ? " 
And Olger answered : " When he shall 

appear. 
You will behold what manner of man 

he is ; 
But what will then befall us 1 kn-ow 

not." 

Then came the guard that never knew 

repose, 
The Paladins of France ; and at the 

sight 
The Lombard King o'ercome with terror 

cried : 



"This must bp Charlemagne ! " and as 

before 
Did Olger answer : " No ; not yet, not 

yet." 

And then appeared in panoply complete. 
The Bishops and the Abbots and tht 

Priests 
Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts 
And Desiderio could no more endure 
The light of day, nor yet encounte) 

death. 
But sobbed aloud and said : " Let us 

go down 
And hide us in the bosom of the earth. 
Far from the sight and anger of a foe 
So terrible as this ! " And Olger said : 
" When you behold the harvests in the 

fields 
Shaking with fear, the Po and the 

• Ticino 
Lashing the city walls with iron waves, 
Then may you know that Charlemagne 

is come." 
And even as he spake, in the northwest, 
Lo ! there uprose a black and threaten- 
ing cloud. 
Out of whose bosom flashed the light of 

arms 
Upon the people pent up in the city ; 
A light more terrible than any dark- 
ness ; 
And Cliarlemagne appeared ; — a Man 
of Iron ! 

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves 
Of iion, and his breastplate and his 

greaves 
And tassets were of iron, and his shield. 
In his left hand he held an iron spear, 
In his right hand his sword invincible. 
The horse he rode on had the strength 

of iron, 
And color of iron. All who went before 

him, 
Beside him and behind him, his whole 

host, 
AVere armed with iron, and their hearts 

within them 
Were stronger than the armor that they 

wore. 
The fields and all the roads were filled 

with iron. 
And points of iron glistened in the 

sun 
And shed a terror through the city 

streets. 



i 



EMMA AND EGINHARD. 



295 



This at a single glance Olger the Dane 
Saw from the tower, and turning to the 

King 
Exclaimed in haste : '* Behold ! this is 

the man 
You looked for with such eagerness ! " 

and then 
Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet. 



INTERLUDE. 

Well pleased all listened to the tale, 
That drew, the Student said, its pith 
And marrow from the ancient myth 
Of some one with an iron flail ; 
Or that portentous Man of Brass 
Hephaestus made in days of yore, 
"Who stalked about the Cretan shore, 
And saw the ships appear and pass, 
And threw stones at the Argonauts, 
Being filled with indiscriminate ire 
That tangled and perplexed his thoughts ; 
But, like a hospitable host. 
When strangers landed on the coast, 
Heated himself red-hot with fire, 
And hugged them in his arms, and 

pressed 
Their bodies to his burning breast. 

The Poet answered : ' ' No, not thus 
The legend rose ; it sprang at first 
Out of the hunger and the thirst 
In all men for the marvellous. 
And thus it filled and satisfied 
The imagination of mankind. 
And this ideal to the mind 
Was truer than historic fact. 
Fancy enlarged and multiplied 
The terrors of the awful name 
Of Charlemagne, till he became 
Armipotent in every act, 
And, clothed in mystery, appeared 
Not what men saw, but what they 
feared. * 

• The Theologian said : " Perchance 
Your chronicler in writing this 
Had in his mind the Anabasis, 
Where Xenophon describes the advance 
Of Artaxerxes to the fight ; 
At first the low gi^ay cloud of dust. 
And then a blackness o'er the fields 
As of a passing thunder-gust. 
Then flash of brazen armor blight. 
And i-anks of men, and spears up-thrust, 



Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, 
And cavalry equipped in white, 
And chariots ranged in front of these 
With scythes upon their axle-trees." 

To this the Student answered : " Well, 
I also have a tale to tell 
Of Charlemagne ; a tale that throws 
A softer light, more tinged with rose, 
Than your grim apparition cast 
Upon the darkness of the past. 
Listen, and hear in English rhyme 
What the good Monk of Lauresheim 
Gives as the gossip of his time, 
In mediaeval Latin prose," 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

EMMA AND EGINHARD. 

When Alcuin taught the sons of Char- 
lemagne, 

In the free schools of Aix, how kings 
should reign, 

And with them taught the children of 
the poor. 

How subjects should be patient and en- 
dure, 

He touched the lips of some, as best be- 
fit. 

With honey from the hives of Holy 
Writ ; 

Others intoxicated with the wine 

Of ancient history, sweet but less divine ; 

Some with the wholesome fruits of gi'am- 
mar fed ; 

Others with mysteries of the stars o'er- 
head, 

That hang suspended in the vaulted 
sky 

Like lamps in some fair palace vast and 
high. 

In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see 

That Saxon monk, with hood and ro- 
sary. 

With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and 
book. 

And mingled love and reverence in his 
look. 

Or hear the cloister and the court repeat 

The measured footfalls of his sandaled 
feet. 

Or watch him with the pupils of his 
sihool. 

Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. 



* See page .340. 



296 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



iVraong them, always earliest in his place. 
Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, 
Whose face was bright with flashes that 

forerun 
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. 
To him all things were possible, and 

seemed 
Not what he had accomplished, but had 

dreamed, 
And what were tasks to others were his 

play, 
The pastime of an idle holiday. 

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, 
"With many a shrug and shaking of the 

head. 
Surely some demon must possess the lad. 
Who showed more wit than ever school- 
boy had, 
And learned his Trivium thus without 

the rod ; 
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. 

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device. 
Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice ; 
Science of Numbers, Geometric art, 
And lore of Stars, and Music knew^ by 

heart ; 
A Minnesinger, long before the times 
Of those who sang their love in Suabian 

rhjones. 

The Emperor, when he heard this good 

report 
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the 

court, 
Said to himself, " This stripling seems 

to be 
Purposely sent into the world for me ; 
He shall become my scribe, and shall be 

schooled 
In all the arts whereby the world is 

ruled. " 
Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain 
To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; 
Became the sovereign's favorite, his right 

hand, 
So that his fame was great in all the land, 
And all men loved him for his modest 

gi'ace 
And comeliness of figure and of face. 
An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, 
A man of books, yet sacred from abuse 
Among the armed knights with spur on 

heel, 
The tramp of horses and the clang of 

steel ; 



And as the Emperor promised he was 

schooled 
In all the arts by which the world is 

ruled. 
But the one art supreme, whose law is 

fate. 
The Emperor never dreamed of till too 

late. 

Home from her convent to the palace 

came 
The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet 

name, 
Whispered by seneschal or sang by bard, 
Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. 
He saw her from his window, as in state 
She came, by knights attended through 

the gate ; 
He saw her at the banquet of that day. 
Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May ; 
He saw her in the garden, as she strayed 
Among the flowers of sunmier with her 

maid, 
And said to him, " Eginhard, disclose 
The meaning and the mystery of the 

rose " ; 
And trembling he made answer : "In 

good sooth. 
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth ! " 

How can I tell the signals and the signs 
By which one heart another heart di- 
vines ? 
How can I tell the many thousand ways 
B)' which it keeps the secret it betrays ? 

mystery of love ! strange romance ! 
Among the Peers and Paladins of France, 
Shining in steel, and prancing on gay 

steeds, 
Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, 
The Princess Emma had no words nor 

looks 
But for this clerk, this man of thought 

and books. 

The summer passed, the autumn came ; 
the stalks 

Of lilies blackened in the garden walks ; 

The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood- 
red. 

Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, 

Or Jove descending in a shower of gold 

Into the lap of Danae of old ; 

For poets cherish many a strange conceit, 

And love transmutes all nature by its 
heat. 



EMMA AND EGINHARD. 



297 



No more the garden lessons, nor the dark 
And hurried meetings in the twilight 

park ; 
But now the studious lamp, and the de- 
lights 
Of firesides in the silent winter nights, 
i^ nd watching from his window hour by 

hour 
The light that burned in Princess Emma's 
tower. 

At length one night, while musing by 
the fire, 

O'ercome at last by his insane desire, — 

For what will reckless love not do and 
dare ? — 

He crossed the court, and climbed the 
winding stair, 

With some feigned message in the Em- 
peror's name ; 

But when he to the lady's presence came 

He knelt down at her feet, until she 
laid 

Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, 

A.nd whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir 
Knight, 

To my heart's level, my heart's de- 
light." 

And there he lingered till the crowing 

cock. 
The Alectryon of the farmyard and the 

flock. 
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and 

clear, 
To tell the sleeping world that dawn was 

near. 
And then they parted ; but at parting, lo ! 
They saw the palace courtyard white 

with snow, 
And, placid as a nun, the moon on high 
Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. 
" Alas ! " he said, " how hide the fatal 

line 
Of footprints leading from thy door to 

mine. 
And none returning ! " Ah, he little 

knew 
What woman's wit, when put to proof, 

can do ! 

That night the Emperor, sleepless with 

the cares 
And troubles that attend on state affairs. 
Had risen before the dawn, and musing 



Into the silent night, as one amazed 



To see the calm that reigned o'er all 

supreme, 
When his own reign was but a troubled 

dream. 
The moon lit up the gables capped with 

snow. 
And the white roofs, and half the court 

below. 
And he beheld a form, that seemed to 

cower 
Beneath a burden, come from Emma'& 

tower, — 
A woman, who upon her shoulders bore 
Clerk Egiiihard to his own private dooi'. 
And then returned in haste, but still 

essayed 
To tread the footprints she herself haU 

made ; 
And as she passed across the lighted 

space. 
The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's 

face ! 

He started not ; he did not speak oi 

moan. 
But seemed as one who hath been turned 

to stone ; 
And stood there like a statue, nor awoke 
Out of his trance of pain, till morning 

broke. 
Till the stars faded, and the moon went 

down. 
And o'er the towers and steeples of the 

town 
Came the gray daylight ; then the sun, 

who took 
The empire of the world with sovereign 

look. 
Suffusing with a soft and golden glow 
All the dead landscape in its shroud of 

snow. 
Touching with flame the tapering chapej 

spires, 
Windows and roofs, and smoke of house- 
hold fires, 
And kindling park and palace as he 

came ; 
The stork's nest on the chimney seemed 

in flame. 
And thus he stood till Eginhard ap- 
peared, 
Demure and modest with his comely 

beard 
And flowing flaxen tresses, come tc 

ask, 
As was his wont, the day's appointee? 

task. 



298 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The Emperor looked upon liim with a 

smile, 
And gently said: "My son, wait yet 

awhile ; 
This hour my council meets upon some 

great 
And very urgent business of the state. 
Come back within the hour. On thy 

return 
The work appointed for thee shalt cliou 

learn." 

Having dismissed this gallant Trouba- 
dour, 

He summoned straight his council, and 
secure 

And steadfast in his purpose, from the 
throne 

All the adventure of the night made 
known ; 

Then asked for sentence ; and with eager 
breath 

Some answered banishment, and others 
death. 

Then spake the king : ' ' Your sentence 

is not mine ; 
Life is the gift of God, and is divine ; 
Nor from these palace walls shall one 

depart 
Who carries such a secret in his heart ; 
My better judgment points another way. 
Good Alcuin, I remember how one day 
When my Pepino asked you, ' What 

are men ? ' 
You wrote upon his tablets with your 

pen, 
' Guests of the grave and travellers that 

pass ! ' 
This being true of all men, we, alas ! 
Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust. 
Let us be merciful as well as just ; 
This passing traveller, who hath stolen 

away 
The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, 
Shall of himself the precious gem restore ; 
By giving it, I make it mine once more. 
Over those fatal footprints I will throw 
My ermine mantle like another snow." 

Then Eginhard was summoned to the 

hall, 
And entered, and in presence of them 

all. 
The Emperor said : " My son, for thou 

to me 
Haft been a son, and evermore shalt be, 



Long hast thou served thy sovereign, 
and thy zeal 

Pleads to me with importunate appeal, 

While I have been forgetful to requite 

Thy service and affection as was right. 

But now the hour is come, when I, thy 
Lord, 

Will crown thy love with such supreme 
reward, 

A gift so precious kings have striven in 
vain 

To win it from the hands ot Charle- 
magne." 

Then spi-ang the portals of the chamber 

wide, 
And Princess Emma entered, in the 

pride 
Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er- 

came 
The conscious terror and the blush of 

shame. 
And the good Emperor rose up from his 

throne, 
And taking her white hand within his 

own 
Placed it in Eginhard's, and said : *' My 

son, 
This is the gift thy constant zeal hath 

won ; 
Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, 
And cover up the footprints in the snow ." 



INTERLUDE. 

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme 
Of Eginhard and love and youth ; 
Some doubted its historic truth. 
But while they doubted, ne'ertheless 
Saw in it gleams of truthfulness. 
And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. 

This they discussed in various mood ; 
Then in the silence that ensued 
AVas heard a sharp and sudden sound 
As of a bow-string snapped in air ; 
And the Musician with a bound 
Sprang up in terror from his chair, 
And for a moment listening stood, 
Then strode aci'oss the room, and found 
His dear, his darling violin 
Still lying safe asleep Avithin 
Its little cradle, like a child 
That gives a sudden cry of pain. 
And wakes to fall asleep again ;. 
And as he looked at it and smiled, 



ELIZABETH. 



299 



By the uncertain light beguiled, 
Despair ! two strings were broken in 
twain. 

While all lamented and made moan, 
With many a sympathetic word 
As if the loss had been their own, 
Deeming the tones they n)ight have 

heard 
Sweeter than they had lieard before, 
They saw the Landlord at the door. 
The missing man, the portly Squire ! 
He had not entered, but he stood 
With both arms full of seasoned wood, 
To feed the much-devouring fire, 
That like a lion in a cage 
Lashed its long tail and roared with rage. 

The missing man ! Ah, yes, they said. 
Missing, but Avhither had he fled ? 
Where had he hidden hhnself away ? 
No farther than the barn or shed ; 
He had not hidden himself, nor fled ; 
How should he pass the rainy day 
But in his barn with hens and hay. 
Or mending harness, cart, or sled ? 
Now, having come, he needs must stay 
And tell his tale as well as they. 

The Landlord answered only : " These 

Are logs from the dead apple-trees 

Of the old orchard planted here 

By the first Howe of Sudbury. 

Nor oak nor maple has so clear 

A flame, or burns so quietly, 

Or leaves an ash so clean and white " ; 

Thinking by this to put aside 



The impending tale that terrified ; 

When suddenly, to his delight, 

The Theologian interposed. 

Saying that when the door was closed, 

And they had stopped that draft of cold, 

Unpleasant night air, he proposed 

To tell a tale world-wide apart 

From that the Student had just told ; 

World-wide apart, and j^et akin. 

As showing that the human heart 

Beats on forever as of old. 

As well beneath the snow-white fold 

Of Quaker kerchief, as within 

Sendal or silk or cloth of gold. 

And without preface would begin. 

And then the clamorous clock struck 

eight. 
Deliberate, with sonorous chime 
Slow measuring out the march of time, 
Like some grave Consul of old Rome 
In Jupiter's temple driving home 
The nails that marked the year and date. 
Thus interrupted in his rhyme. 
The Theologian needs must wait ; 
But quoted Horace, where he sings 
The dire Necessity of things. 
That drives into the roofs sublime 
Of new-built houses of the great 
The adamantine nails of Fate. 

When ceased the little carillon 
To herald from its wooden tower 
The important transit of the hour, 
The Theologian hastened on, 
Content to be allowed at last 
To sing his Idyl of the Past. 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

ELIZABETH. 



I. 

" Ah, how short are the days ! How soon the night overtakes us 1 
In the old country the twilight is longer ; but here in the forest 
Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming. 
Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight ; 
Yet how grand is the winter ! How spotless the snow is, and perfect ! " 

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at lightfall to Hannah the housemaid, 
As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor. 
By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape 
White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision. 
By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens. 
Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows, 



300 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing 
Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. 

Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid : 
** Beautiful winter ! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, 
If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling. 
But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it 
Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, 
Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going ; 
Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. 
There is snow in the air, and see ! it is falling already ; 
All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow. 
Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen ; and then, too. 
How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day ?" 

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving : 
*' Surely the Lord will provide ; for unto the snow he sayeth. 
Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth ; he is it 
Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost." 
So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket. 

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, 
Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there 
Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter 
Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, 
Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle, 
Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot. 
Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. 

Then Elizabeth said, *'Lo ! Joseph is long on his errand, 
I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing 
For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph ; 
In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing." 

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid 
tiaughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent, 
While her mistress went on : "The house is far from the village ; 
"We should be lonely here, Avere it not for Friends that in passing 
Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming." 

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal : 
"Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern ; 
Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons 
In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft. 
Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine." 

But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered : 
" All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it ; 
I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people 
Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. 
His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them 
Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. 
Therefore my excellent father Ih'st built this house in the clearing ; 
Though he came not himself, I came ; for the Lord was my guidance, 
Leading me hei-e for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others 
Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table." 



ELIZABETH. 301 

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid ; 
And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer : 
" Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, 
When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, 
Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission ? 
No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugli, 
Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, 
Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind 
Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. 
Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, 
Wherefore I do not know ; but strong is the feeling within me 
That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten." 



II. 

E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, 

First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance. 

Then growing nearer an(i louder, and turning into the farmyard, 

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. 

Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, 

And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid, 

" It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him." 

Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern 
Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, 
And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, 
Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow 
Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, 
And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. 
Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger. 
Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air ; 
And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, 
As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, 
And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, 
Quietly gave him her hand, and said, ' ' Thou art welcome, John Estaugh. 
And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, 
" Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth ? After so many 
Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. 
Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. 
For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence 
On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, 
Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside 
Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch, 
How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, 
ReadiDg Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, 
Praying liini to come up and sit in his chariot with him. 
So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me. 
And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, 
How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, 
Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country. 
And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England, 
And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon, 
Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing." 

And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely 
Looking into his face with her innocent ores as she answered. 



302 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

** Surely the hand of the Lord is in it ; his Spirit hath led thee 
Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside." 

Then, with stamping of feet, the door was opened, and Joseph 
Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, 
Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper ; 
For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons. 
But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and cue household. 

When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, 
Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood. 
Lord of forests un felled, and not a gleaner of fagots, 
Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty 
All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter ! 
Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table. 
Coming and going, and bustling about in closet and chamber. 

Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, 
Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood ; 
How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments 
Comforted with the ex tendings and holy, sweet inflowings 
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded. 
And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people 
Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. 

Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely 
Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed 
Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid 
Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. 
And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, ** The maiden 
Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward." 
Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. 

Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal 
Of the great Silent Assembly, the ]\Ieeting of shadows, where no man 
Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken ! 
Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. 
But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, 
Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavenS; 
Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway 
Through the drifts of snow ; the horses already were harnessed, 

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, ^ 

Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May ; while above them jj 

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, * 

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, 
As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window. 
Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. 



III. 

Now was the winter gone, and the snow ; and Robin the Redbreast, 

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other 

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely 

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting. 

Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only 

Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. 



I 



ELIZABETH. 303 

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon 
Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. 
Thus came the lovely spring with a rusli of blossoms and music, 
Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. 

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly 
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims. 
Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting 
In the neighboring town ; and with them came riding John Estaugh. 
At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting 
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey 
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden ; 
Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, 
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. 
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning 
Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh : 
"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee. 
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others ; 
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." 
And they rode slowly along through the Avoods, conversing together. 
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest ; 
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning ! 

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, 
As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded : 
" I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee ; 
I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." 

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken, 
" Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit ; 
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, 
Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. 
But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. 
When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed 
He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness 
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance." 

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, 
"So is it best, John Estaugh. We wdll not speak of it further. 
It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow 
Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not 
When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath decreed it, 
Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me." 
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. 

IV. 

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing. 
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness ; 
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, 
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. 

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. 
Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things 
Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, 
Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled ; and Hannah the housemaid 
Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring. 



304 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, 
And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, 
For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, 
Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves overladen, 
As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. 

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing 
Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, 
Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness 
Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. 
O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubling and waiting ! 
lost hours and days in which we might have been happy ! 
But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps. 
And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. 

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered, 
Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection. 
And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, 
Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, 
Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. 
Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. 

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, 
Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid ; 
For when he asked her the question, she answered, " Nay " ; and then added 
** But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph." 



INTERLUDE. 

"A PLEASANT and a winsome tale," 
The Student said, "though somewhat 

pale 
And quiet in its coloring, 
As if it caught its tone and air 
From the gi-ay suits that Quakers wear ; 
Yet worthy of some German bard, 
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, 
"Who love of humble themes to sing. 
In humble verse ; but no more true 
Than was the tale I told to you." 

The Theologian made reply, 

And with some waraith, ' ' That I deny ; 

'T is no invention of my own. 

But something well and widely known 

To readers of a riper age, 

Writ by the skilful hand that wrote 

The Indian tale of Hobomok, 

And Philothea's classic page. 

I found it like a waif afloat, 

Or dulse uprooted from its rock, 

On the swift tides that ebb and flow 

In daily papers, and at flood 

Bear freighted vessels to and fro, 

But later, when the ebb is low. 

Leave a long waste of sand and mud." 



" It matters little," quoth the Jew ; 
" The cloak of truth is lined with lies, 
Sayeth some proverb old and wise ; 
And Love is master of all arts. 
And puts it into human hearts 
The strangest things to say and do." 

And here the controversy closed 

Abruptly, ere 't was well begun ; 

For the Sicilian interposed 

With, "Lordlings, listen, every one 

That listen may, unto a tale 

That 's merrier than the nightingale ; 

A tale that cannot boast, forsooth, 

A single rag or shred of truth ; 

That does not leave the mind in doubt 

As to the with it or without ; 

A naked falsehood and absurd 

As mortal ever told or heard. 

Therefore I tell it ; or, maybe. 

Simply because it pleases me." 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 

Once on a time, some centuries ago, 
In the hot sunshine two Franciscau 
friars 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 



,S05 



Wended their weary way with footsteps 

slow 
Back to their convent, whose white 

walls and spires 
Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of 

snow ; 
Covered with dust they were, and torn 

by briers, 
And bore like sumpter-miiles upon their 

backs 
The badge of poverty, their beggar's 

sacks. 

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare 
And silent man, with pallid cheeks and 
thin. 
Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, 
prayer, 
Solemn and gray, and worn with dis- 
cipline. 
As if his body but white ashes were. 
Heaped on the living coals that glowed 
within ; 
A simple monk, like many of his day. 
Whose instinct was to listen and obey. 

A different man was Brother Timothy, 

Of larger mould and of a coarser paste ; 
A rubicund and stalwart monk was he. 
Broad in the shoulders, broader in the 
waist, 
Who often filled the dull refectory 
"With noise by which the convent was 
disgraced. 
But to the mass-book gave but little 

heed. 
By reason he had never learned to read. 

Now, as they passed the outskirts of a 
wood. 
They saw, with mingled pleasure and 
surprise. 
Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood 
Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. 
The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood 
His owner was, Avho, looking for sup- 
plies 
Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, 
Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. 

As soon as Brother Timothy espied 
The patient animal, he said ; '* Good- 
lack ! 
Thus for our needs doth Providence pro- 
vide ; 
"We '11 lay our wallets on the creature's 
back." 

ao 



This being done, he leisurely untied 
From head and neck the halter of the 
jack. 
And put it round his own, and to the 

tree 
Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he, 

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh. 
He cried to Brother Anthony : "Away ! 
And drive the ass before you with your 
staff" ; 
And when you reach the convent you 
may say 
You left me at a farm, half tired and 
half 
111 with a fever, for a night and day, 
And that the farmer lent this ass to bear 
Our wallets, that are heavy with good 
fare." 

Now Brother Anthon}', who knew the 

pranks 
Of Brother Timothy, would not per- 
suade 
Or reason with him on his quirks and 

cranks, 
But, being obedient, silently obeyed ; 
And, smiting with his staff" the ass's 

flanks. 
Drove him before him over hill and 

glade, 
Safe with his provend to the convent 

gate. 
Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his 

fate. 

Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his 
fire. 
Forth issued from the wood, and stood 
aghast 
To see the ponderous body of the friar 
Standing where he had left his donkey 
last. 
Trembling he stood, and dared not ven- 
ture nigher. 
But stared, and gaped, and crossed 
himself full fast ; 
For, being credulous and of little wit, 
He thought it was some demon from the 
pit. 

"While speechless and bewildered thus he 

gazed. 
And dropped his load of fagots on the 

gi'ound, 
Quoth Brother Timothy : "Be not 

amazed 



306 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



That where you left a donkey should 
be found 
A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and 
crazed, 
Standing demure and with a halter 
bound ; 
But set me free, and hear the piteous 

story 
Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. 

* ' I am a sinful man, although you see 

I wear the consecrated cowl and cape ; 
You never owned an ass, but you owned 
me, 
Changed and transformed from my 
own natural shape 
All for the deadly sin of gluttony, 
From which I could not otherwise 
escape, 
Than by this penance, dieting on grass. 
And being worked and beaten as an ass. 

" Think of the ignominy I endured ; 

Think of the miserable life I led. 
The toil and blows to which I was inured, 

My wretched lodging in a windy shed, 
My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, 

The damp and musty straw thatformed 
my bed ! 
But, having done this penance for my 

sins, 
My life as man and monk again begins. " 

The simple Gilbert, hearing words like 
these. 
Was conscience-stricken, and fell down 
apace 
Before the friar upon his bended knees. 
And wdth a suppliant voice implored 
his grace ; 
And the good monk, now very much at 
ease. 
Granted him pardon mth a smiling 
face. 
Not could refuse to be that night his 

guest, 
1 1 being late, and he in need of rest. 

Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives. 
With figures painted on its white- 
washed walls. 
The cottage stood ; and near the hum- 
ming hives 
Made murmurs as of far-off water- 
falls ; 
A place where those who love secluded 
lives 



Might live content, and, free from 

noise and brawls. 
Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here 
Measure by fruits the slow-revolving 

year. 

And, coming to this cottage of content. 
They found his children, and the 
buxom wench 
His wife. Dame Cicely, and his father, 
bent 
With years and labor, seated on a 
bench. 
Repeating over some obscure event 
In the old wars of Milanese and 
French ; 
All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sens i 
Of sacred awe and humble reverence. 

When Gilbert told them what had come 
to pass. 
How beyond question, cavil, or sur- 
mise. 
Good Brother Timothy had been their ass, 
You should have seen the wonder in 
their eyes ; 
You should have heard them cry, 
" Alas ! alas ! " 
Have heard their lamentations aiid 
their sighs ! 
For all believed the story, and began 
To see a saint in this afflicted man. 

Forthwith there was prepared a grand 
repast. 
To satisfy the craving of the friar- 
After so rigid and prolonged a fast ; 
The bustling housewife stirred the 
kitchen fire ; 
Then her two barnyard fowls, her best 
and last, 
Were put to death, at her express de- 
sire. 
And served up with a salad in a bowl. 
And flasks of country wine to crown the 
whole. I 

It would not be believed should I repeat 
How hungry Brother Timothy ap- 
peared ; 
It was a pleasure but to see him eat, 
His white teeth flashing through his 
russet beard. 
His face aglow and flushed with wine 
and meat. 
His roguish eyes that rolled and 
laughed and leered ! 



THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 



307 



Lord ! how he drank the blood-red coun- 
try wine 
As if the village vintage were divine ! 

And all the while he talked without sur- 
cease, 
And told his merry tales with jovial 
glee 
♦That never flagged, but rather did in- 
crease, 
And laughed aloud as if insane were he, 
And wagged his red beard, matted like a 
fleece. 
And cast such glances at Dame Cicely 
That Gilbert now grew angry with his 

guest. 
And thus in words his rising wrath ex- 
pressed. 

" Good father," said he, "easily we see 
How needful in some persons, and how 

right, 
Mortification of the flesh may be. 
The indulgence you have given it to- 
night. 
After long penance, clearly proves to me 
Your strength against temptation is 
but slight, 
And shows the dreadful peril you are in 
Of a relapse into your deadly sin. 

"To-morrow morning, with the rising 
sun. 
Go back unto your convent, nor refrain 
From fasting and from scourging, for you 
run 
Great danger to become an ass again, 
Since monkish flesh and asinine are one ; 
Therefore be wise, nor longer here re- 
main. 
Unless you wish the scourge should be 

applied 
By other hands, that will not spare your 
hide." 

When this the monk had heard, his 
color fled 
And then returned, like lightning in 
the air, 
Till he was all one blush from foot to 
head. 
And even the bald spot in his russet 
hair 
Turned from its usual pallor to bright 
red ! 
The old man was asleep upon his chair. 
Then all retired, and sank into the deep 
And helpless imbecility of sleep. 



They slept until the dawn of day drew 
near, 
Till the cock should have crowed, but 
did not crow. 
For they had slain the shining chanti- 
cleer 
And eaten him for supper, as you know. 
The monk was up betimes and of good 
cheer. 
And, having breakfasted, made haste 
to go, 
As if he heard the distant matin bell. 
And had but little time to say farewell. 

Fresh was the morning as the breath of 
kine ; 
Odors of herbs commingled with the 
sweet 
Balsamic exhalations of the pine ; 

A haze was in the air presaging heat ; 
Uprose the sun above the Apennine, 

And all the misty valleys at its feet 
Were full of the delirious song of birds, 
Voices of men, and bells, and low of 
herds. 

All this to Brother Timothy was naught ; 
He did not care for scenery, nor here 
His busy fancy found the thing it 
sought ; 
But when he saw the convent walls 
appear. 
And smoke from kitchen chimneys up- 
ward caught 
And whirled aloft into the atmos- 
phere. 
He quickened his slow footsteps, like a 

beast 
That scents the stable a league off at 
least. 

And as he entered through the convent 
gate 
He saw there in the court the ass, 
Avho stood 
Twirling his ears about, and seemed to 
wait. 
Just as he found him waiting in the 
wood ; 
And told the Prior that, to alleviate 

The daily labors of the brotherhood. 
The owner, being a man of means and 

thrift. 
Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. 

And thereupon the Prior for many days 
Revolved this serious matter in his 
mind, 



308 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And turned it over many different 

ways, 
Hoping that some safe issue he might 

find ; 
But stood in fear of what the world 

would say, 
If he accepted presents of this kind. 
Employing beasts of burden for the 

packs, 
That lazy monks should carry on their 

backs. 

Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort. 
And stop the mouth of cavil, he 
decreed 

That he would cut the tedious matter 
short. 
And sell the ass with all convenient 
speed. 

Thus saving the expense of his sup- 
port, 
Apd hoarding something for a time of 
need. 

So he despatched him to the neighbor- 
ing Fair, 

And freed himself from cumber and from 
care. 

It happened now by chance, as some 
might say. 
Others perhaps would call it destiny, 
Gilbert was at the Fair ; and heard a 
bray, 
And nearer came, and saw that it was 
he, 
And whispered in his ear, "Ah, lacka- 
day ! 
Good father, the rebellious flesh, I 
see, 
Has changed you back into an ass 

again. 
And all my admonitions were in vain." 

The ass, who felt this breathing in his 
ear. 
Did not turn round to look, but 
shook his head, 
As if he were not pleased these words to 
hear, 
And contradicted all that had been 
said. 
And this made Gilbert ciy in voice more 
clear, 
" I know you well ; your hair is 
russet-red ; 
Do not deny it ; for you are the same 
Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name." 



The ass, though now the secret had 
come out. 
Was obstinate, and shook his head 
again ; 
Until a crowd was gathered round about 
To hear this dialogue between the 
twain ; 
And raised their voices in a noisy shout 
When Gilbert tried to make the 
matter plain. 
And flouted him and mocked him all 

day long 
With laughter and with jibes and scraps 
of song. 

" If this be Brother Timothy," they 

cried, 
" Buy him, and feed him on the 

tenderest grass ; 
Thou canst not do too much for one so 

tried 
As to be twice transformed into an 

ass." 
So simple Gilbert bought him, and un- 
tied 
His halter, and o'er mountain and 

morass 
He led him homeward, talking as he 

went 
Of good behavior and a mind content. 

The children saw them coming, and 
advanced, 
Shouting with joy, and hung about 
his neck, — 
Not Gilbert's, but the ass's, — round 
him danced. 
And wove green garlands where- 
withal to deck 
His sacred person ; for again it chanced 
Their childish feelings, without rein 
or check, 
Could not discriminate in any way 
A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. 

"0 Brother Timothy," the children 
said, 
"You have come back to us just as 
before ; 
We were afraid, and thought that you 
were dead. 
And we should never see you any 
more." 
And then they kissed the white star on 
his head. 
That like a birth-mark or a badge he 
wore, 



SCANDERBEG. 



309 



Ana patted him upon the neck and face, 
And said a thousand things with child- 
ish grace. 

Thenceforward and forever he was known 

As Brother Timothy, and led alway 
A life of luxury, till he had grown 
Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn 
and hay, 
And very vicious. Then in angry tone. 
Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one 
day, 
** When simple kindness is misunder- 
stood 
A little flagellation may do good." 

His many vices need not here be told ; 
Among them was a habit that he 
had 
Of flinging up his heels at young and 
old, 
Breaking his halter, running off" like 
mad 
O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood 
and wold. 
And other misdemeanors quite as 
bad; 
But worst of all was breaking from his 

shed 
At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. 

So Brother Timothy went back once 
more 
To his old life of labor and distress ; 
Was beaten worse than he had been be- 
fore. 
And now, instead of comfort and ca- 
ress. 
Came labors manifold and trials sore ; 
And as his toils increased his food 
grew less, 
Until at last the great consoler, Death, 
Ended his many suff'erings with his 
breath. 

Great was the lamentation when he died ; 
And mainly that he died impenitent ; 
Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried. 
The old man still remembered the 
event 
In the French war, and Gilbert magni- 
fied 
His many virtues, as he came and 
went, 
And said : " Heaven pardon Brother 

Timothy, 
And keep us from the sin of gluttony. " 



INTERLUDE. 

" SiGNOR LuiGi," said the Jew, 
When the Sicilian's tale was told, 
" The were- wolf is a legend old, 
But the were-ass is something new, 
And yet for one I think it true. 
The days of wonder have not ceased ; 
If there are beasts in forms of men, 
As sure it happens now and then. 
Why may not man become a beast, 
In way of punishment at least ? 

' ' But this I will not now discuss , 

I leave the theme, that we may tnus 

Remain within the realm of song. 

The story that I told before. 

Though not acceptable to all, 

At least you did not find too long. 

I beg you, let me try again, 

With something in a difl"erent vein, 

Before you bid the curtain fall. 

Meanwhile keep watch upon the door, 

Nor let the Landlord leave his chair. 

Lest he should vanish into air. 

And thus elude our search once more. " 

Thus saying, from his lips he blew 
A little cloud of perfumed breath. 
And then, as if it were a clew 
To lead his footsteps safely through. 
Began his tale as foUoweth. 



THE SPANISH JEWS SECOND 
TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 

The battle is fought and won 
By King Ladislaus the Hun, 
In fire of hell and death's frost 
On the day of Pentecost. 
And in rout before his path 
From the field of battle red 
Flee all that are not dead 
Of the army of Amurath. 

In the darkness of the night 
Iskander, the pride and boast 
Of that mighty Othman host. 
With his routed Turks, takes flight 
From the battle fought and lost 
On the day of Pentecost ; 
Leaving behind him dead 
The army of Amurath, 
The vanguard as it led, 



310 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The rearguard as it fled, 

Mown down in the bloody swath 

Of the battle's aftermath. 

But he cared not for Hospodars, 
Nor for Baron or Voivode, 
As on through the night he rode 
And gazed at the fateful stars, 
That were shining overhead ; 
But smote his steed with his staff, 
And smiled to himself, and said ; 
" This is the time to laugh." 

In the middle of the night, 
In a halt of the hurrying flight, 
There came a Scribe of the King 
Wearing his signet ring. 
And said in a voice severe : 
'* This is the first dark blot 
On thy name, George Castriot 1 
Alas ! why art thou here, 
And the army of Amurath slain. 
And left on the battle plain ? " 

And Iskander answered and said : 
" They lie on the bloody sod 
By the hoofs of horses trod ; 
But this was the decree 
Of the watchers overhead ; 
For the war belongeth to God, 
And in battle who are we, 
Who are Ave, that shall withstand 
The wind of his lifted hand ? " 

Then he bade them bind with chains 
This man of books and brains ; 
And the Scribe said : *' What misdeed 
Have I done, that, without need. 
Thou doest to me this thing ? " 
And Iskander answering 
Said unto him : " Not one 
Misdeed to me hast thou done ; 
But for fear that thmi shouldst run 
And hide thyself from me. 
Have I done this unto thee. 

" Now write me a writing, Scribe, 

And a blessing be on thy tribe ! 

A writing sealed with thy ring, 

To King Amurath's Pasha 

In the city of Croia, 

The city moated and walled. 

That he surrender the same 

In the name of my master, the King ; 

For what is writ in his name 

Can never be recalled." 



And the Scribe bowed low in dread, 

And unto Iskander said : 

" Allah is great and just. 

But we are as ashes and dust ; 

How shall I do this thing. 

When I know that my guilty head 

Will be forfeit to the King ? " 

Then swift as a shooting star 

The curved and shining blade 

Of Iskander's scimetar 

From its sheath, with jewels bright, 

Shot, as he thundered : " Write ! " 

And the trembling Scribe obeyed, 

And wrote in the fitful glare 

Of the bivouac fire apart. 

With the chill of the midnight air 

On his forehead white and bare, 

And the chill of death in his heart. 

Then again Iskander cried : 
" Now follow whither I ride. 
For here thou must not stay. 
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, 
And honors without end 
Shall surround thee on every side, 
And attend thee night and day." 
But the sullen Scribe replied : 
" Our pathways here divide ; 
]\Iine leadeth not thy way." 

And even as he spoke 

Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke, 

When no one else was near ; 

And the Scribe sank to the ground, 

As a stone, pushed from the brink 

Of a black pool, might sink 

With a sob and disappear ; 

And no one saw the deed ; 

And in the stillness around 

No sound was heard but the sound 

Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, 

As forward he sprang with a bound. 

Then onward he rode and afar. 
With scarce three hundred men. 
Through river and forest and fen. 
O'er the mountains of Argentar ; 
And his heart was merry within, 
When he crossed the river Drin, 
And saw in the gleam of the morn 
The White Castle Ak-Hissar, 
The city Croia called. 
The city moated and walled. 
The city where he was born, — 
And above it the morning star. 



INTERLUDE. 



3lx 



Then his trumpeters in the van 

On their silver bugles blew, 

And in crowds about him ran 

Albanian and Turkoman, 

That the sound together drew. 

And he feasted with his friends, 

And when they were warm with wine. 

He said : " friends of mine,. 

Behold what fortune sends, 

And what the fates design ! 

King Amurath commands 

That my father's wide domaiii, 

This city and all its lands, 

Shall be given to me again." 

Then to the Castle White 
He rode in regal state, 
And entered in at the gate 
In all his arms bedight, 
And gave to the Pasha 
Who ruled in Croia 
The writing of the King, 
Sealed with his signet ring. 
And the Pasha bowed his head, 
And after a silence said : 
" Allah is just and great : 
I yield to the will divine. 
The city and lands are thine ; 
Who shall contend with fate ? " 

Anon from the castle walls 

The crescent banner falls. 

And the crowd beholds instead, 

Like a portent in the sky, 

Iskander's banner fly. 

The Black Eagle with double head ; 

And a shout ascends on high. 

For men's souls are tired of the Turks, 

And their wicked ways and works, 

That have made of Ak-Hissar 

A city of the plague ; 

And the loud, exultant cry 

That echoes wide and far 

Is : •' Long live Scanderbeg ! ' 

It was thus Tskander came 

Once more unto his own ; 

And the tidings, like the flame 

Of a conflagration blown 

By the winds of summer, ran. 

Till the land was in a blaze, 

And the cities far and near, 

Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 

In his Book of the Words of the 

Days, 
* ' Were taken as a man 
Would take the tip of liis ear." 



INTERLUDE. 

" Now that is after my own heart," 
The Poet cried ; " one understands 
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, 
And skilled in every warlike art, 
Riding through his Albanian lands, 
And following the auspicious star 
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar.'* 

The Theologian added here 

His word of praise not less sincere, 

Although he ended with a jibe ; 

*' The hero of romance and song 

Was born," he said, " to right the 

wrong ; 
And I approve ; but all the same 
That bit of treason with the Sciibe 
Adds nothing to your hero's fame." 

The Student praised the good old times 
And liked the canter of the rhymes, 
That had a hoofbeat in their sound ; 
But longed some further word to hear 
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, 
And where his volume might be found. 
The tall Musician walked the room 
With folded arms and gleaming eyes. 
As if lie saw the Vikings rise, 
Gigantic shadows in the gloom ; 
And much he talked of their emprise, 
And meteors seen in Northern skies. 
And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom 
But the Sicilian laughed again ; 
*' This is the time to laugh," he said. 
For the whole story he well knew 
Was an invention of the Jew, 
Spun from the cobAvebs in his brain. 
And of the same bright scarlet thread 
As was the Tale of Kambalu. 

Only the Landlord spake no word ; 
'T was doubtful whether he had hean" 
The tale at all, so full of care 
Was he of his impending fate. 
That, like the sword of Damocles, 
Above his head hung blank and bare, 
Suspended by a single hair, 
So that he could not sit at ease. 
But sighed and looked disconsolate, 
And shifted restless in his chair, 
Revolving how he might evade 
The blow of the descending blade. 

The Student came to his relief 
By saying in bis easy way 



312 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



To the Musician : " Calm your grief, 
My fair Apollo of the North, 
Balder the Beautiful aud so forth ; 
Although your magic lyre or lute 
With broken strings is lying mute, 
Still you can tell some doleful tale 
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale. 
Or something of the kind to suit 
The mood that we are in to-night 
For what is marvellous and strange ; 
So give your nimble fancy range. 
And we will follow in its flight." 

But the Musician shook his head ; 
" No tale I tell to-night," he said, 
** While my poor instrument lies there, 
Even as a child with vacant stare 
Lies in its little coffin dead." 

Yet, being urged, he said at last : 

" There comes to me out of the Past 

A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, 

Singing a song almost divine. 

And with a tear in every line ; 

An ancient ballad, that my nurse 

Sang to me when I was a child. 

In accents tender as the verse ; 

And sometimes wept, and sometimes 

smiled 
While singing it, to see arise 
The look of wonder in my eyes, 
And feel my heart with terror beat. 
This simple ballad I retain 
Clearly imprinted on my brain, 
And as a tale will now repeat," 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 

THE mother's ghost. 

SvEND Dyeing he rideth adown the 



/ myself was young ! 
There he hath wooed him so winsome a 
maid ; 
Fair words gladden so many a heart. 

Together were tliey for seven years. 
And together children six were theirs. 

Then came Death abroad through the 

land. 
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand. 

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, 
And again hath he wooed him another 
maid. 



He hath wooed him a maid and brought 

home a bride. 
But she was bitter and full of pride. 

When she came driving into the yard, 
There stood the six children weeping so 
hard. 

There stood the small children with sor- 
rowful heart ; 

From before her feet she thrust them 
apart. 

She gave to them neither ale nor bread ; 
" Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she 
said. 

She took from them their quilts of blue, 
And said : Ye shall lie on the straw we 
strew." 

She took from them the great waxlight ; 
*' Now ye shall lie in the dark at night." 

In the evening late they cried with cold j 
The mother heard it under the mould. 

The woman heard it the earth below : 
"To my little children I must go," 

She standeth before the Lord of all ; 
" And may I go to my children small ? " 

She prayed him so long, and would not 

cease. 
Until he bade her depart in peace. 

" At cock-crow thou shalt return again •, 
Longer thou shalt not there remain ! " 

She girded up her sorrowful bones. 
And rifted the walls and the marble 
stones. 

As through the village she flitted by, 
The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. 

When she came to the castle gate, 
There stood her eldest daughter in wait. 

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter 

mine ? 
How fares it with brothers and sisters 

thine ? " 



I 



* ' Never art thou mother of mine. 
For my mother was both fair and fine. 



A 



INTERLUDE. 



313 



" My mother was white, with cheeks of 

red, 
But thou art pale, and like to the dead." 

" How should I be fair and fine ? 

I have been dead ; pale cheeks are mine. 

" How should I be white and red, 
So long, so long have I been dead ? " 

When she came in at the chamber door, 
There stood the small children weeping 
sore. 

One she braided, another she brushed. 
The third she lifted, the fourth she 
hushed. 

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, 
As if she would suckle it at her breast. 

Then to her eldest daughter said she, 
" Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither 
to me." 

Into the chamber when he came 

She spake to him in anger and shame. 

" I left behind me both ale and bread ; 
My children hunger and are not fed. 

" I left behind me quilts of blue ; 
My children lie on the straw ye strew, 

" I left behind me the great waxlight ; 
My children lie in the dark at night. 

** If I come again unto your hall. 
As cruel a fate shall you befall ! 

" Now crows the cock with feathers red ; 
Back to the earth must all the dead. 

** Now crows the cock with feathers 

swart ; 
The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 

" Now crows the cock with feathers 

white ; 
1 can abide no longer to-night." 

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs 

wail, 
They gave the children bread and ale. 



Whenever they heard the watch-dogs 

bay, 
They feared lest the dead were on their 

way. 

Whenever they heard the watch-aoga 
bark ; 
/ myself was young ! 
They feared the dead out there in the 
dark. 
Fair words gladden so many a heart. 



INTERLUDE. 

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, 
The Theologian said : " All praise 
Be to the ballads of old times 
And to the bards of simple ways. 
Who walked with Nature hand in hand, 
Whose country was their Holy Land, 
Whose singing robes were homespun 

brown 
From looms of their own native town, 
Which they were not ashamed to wear, 
And not of silk or sendal gay, 
Nor decked with fanciful array 
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer." 

To whom the Student answered : " Yes ; 
All praise and honor ! I confess 
That bread and ale, home- baked, home- 
brewed, 
Are wholesome and nutritious food, 
But not enough for all our needs ; 
Poets — the best of them — are birds 
Of passage ; where their instinct leads 
They range abroad for thoughts and 

words, 
And from all climes bring home the seeds 
That germinate in flowers or weeds. 
They are not fowls in barnyards born 
To cackle o'er a grain of corn ; 
And, if you shut the horizon down 
To the small limits of their town, 
What do you but degrade your bard 
Till he at last becomes as one 
Who thinks the all-encircling sun 
Rises and sets in his back yard ? " 

The Theologian said again : 
" It may be so ; yet I maintain 
That what is native still is best. 
And little care I for the rest. 
'T is a long story ; time would fail 
To tell it, and the hour is late ; 
We will not waste it in debate, 
But listen to our Landlord's tale." 



314 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And thus the sword of Damocles 
Descending not by slow degrees, 
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell. 
Who blushing, and with much demur 
And many vain apologies. 
Plucking up heart, began to tell 
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 

THE HHYME OF SIK CHKISTOPHER. 

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
From Merry England over the sea, 
Who stepped ujion this continent 
As if his august presence lent 
A glory to the colony. 

You should have seen him in the street 
Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, 
His rapier dangling at his feet. 
Doublet and hose and boots complete, 
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume. 
Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, 
Luxuriant curls and air sublime, 
And superior manners now obsolete ! 

He had a wav of saying things 

That made one think of courts and 

kings, 
And lords and ladies of high degree ; 
So that not having been at court 
Seemed something very little short 
Of treason or lese-majesty. 
Such an accomplished knight was he. 

His dwelling was just beyond the town. 
At what he called his country-seat ; 
For, careless of Fortune's smile or 

frown, 
And weary grown of the world and its 

ways, 
He wished to pass the rest of his days 
Jn a private life and a calm retreat. 

But a double life was the life he led, 
And, while professing to be in search 
Of a godly course, and Avilling, he said, 
Nay, anxious to join the Puritan 

church. 
He made of all this but small account. 
And passed his idle hours instead 
With roystering Morton of Merry 

Mount, 
That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, 



Lord of misrule and riot and sin. 
Who looked on the wine when it was 
red. 

This country-seat was little more 
Than a cabin of logs ; but in front of the 

door 
A modest flower-bed thickly sown 
With sweet alyssum and columbine 
Made those who saw it at once divine 
The touch of some other hand than his 

own. 
And first it was whispered, and then it 

was known. 
That he in secret was harboring there 
A little lady with golden hair. 
Whom he called his cousin, but whom 

he had wed 
In the Italian manner, as men said. 
And gi-eat was the scandal everywhere. 

But worse than this was the vague 

surmise, 
Though none could vouch for it or 

aver, 
That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre 
Was only a Papist in disguise ; 
And the more to imbitter their bitter 

lives. 
And the more to trouble the public 

mind. 
Came letters from England, from two 

other wives, 
Whom he had carelessly left behind ; 
Both of them letters of such a kind 
As made the governor hold his breath ; 
The one imploring him straight to send 
The husband home, that he might 

amend ; 
The other asking his instant death, 
As the only way to make an end. 

The wary governor deemed it right, 
When all this wickedness was revealed, 
To send his warrant signed and sealed, 
And take the body of the knight. 
Armed with this mighty instrument, 
The marshal, mounting his gallant 

steed. 
Rode forth from town at the top of hia 

speed. 
And followed by all his bailiff's bold; 
As if on high achievement bent. 
To storm some castle or stronghold, 
Challenge the Avarders on the Mall, 
And seize in his ancestral hall 
A robber-baron grim and old. 




A little lady with golden hair." Page 314. 



I 



THE RHYME OF ST. CHRISTOPHER. 



315 



But when through all the dust and 
heat 

He came to Sir Christopher's country- 
seat, 

No knight he found, nor warder there, 

But the little lady with golden hair. 

Who was gathering in the bright sun- 
shine 

The sweet alyssum and columbine ; 

While gallant Sir Christopher, all so 

gay, 

Being forewarned, through the postern 

gate 
Of his castle wall had tripped away, 
And was keeping a little holiday 
In the forests, that bounded his estate. 

Then as a trusty squire and true 
The marshal searched the castle through, 
Iv ot crediting what the lady said ; 
Searched from cellar to garret in vain, 
And, finding no knight, came out again 
And arrested the golden damsel instead, 
And bore her in triumph into the town. 
While from her eyes the tears rolled down 
On the sweet alyssum and columbine. 
That she held in her fingers white and 
fine. 

The governor's heart was moved to see 

So fair a creature caught within 

The snares of Satan and of sin, 

And he read her a little homily 

On the folly and wickedness of the lives 

Of women, half cousins and half wives ; 

But, seeing that naught his words 

availed, 
He sent her away in a ship that sailed 
For Merry England over the sea. 
To the other two wives in the old coun- 

tree. 
To search her further, since he had failed 
To come at the heart of the mystery. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered 

away 
Through pathless woods for a month and 

a day. 
Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night 
With the noble savage, who took delight 
In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, 
His gun and his rapier and the rest. 
But as soon as the noble savage heard 
That a bounty was offered for this gay 

bird. 
He wanted to slay him out of hand. 



And bring in his beautiful scalp for a 

show. 
Like the glossy head of a kite or crow. 
Until he was made to understand 
They wanted the bird alive, not dead ; 
Then he followed him whithersoever he 

fled. 
Through forest and field, and hunted 

him down. 
And brought him prisoner into the town. 

Alas ! it was a rueful sight. 

To see this melancholy knight 

In such a dismal and hapless case ; 

His hat deformed by stain and dent, 

His plumage broken, his doublet rent, 

His beard and flowing locks forlorn, 

Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, 

His boots with dust and mire besprent ; 

But dignified in his disgrace. 

And wearing an unblushing face. 

And thus before the magistrate 

He stood to hear the doom of fate. 

In vain he strove with wonted case 

To modify and extenuate 

His evil deeds in church and state, 

For gone was now his power to please ; 

And his pompous words had no more 

weight 
Than feathers flying in the breeze. 

With suavity equal to his own 
The governor lent a patient ear 
To the speech evasive and highflown. 
In which he endeavored to make clear 
That colonial laws were too severe 
When applied to a gallant cavalier, 
A gentleman born, and so well known, 
And accustomed to move in a higher 
sphere. 

All this the Puritan governor heard. 
And deigned in answer never a word ; 
But in summary manner shipped away. 
In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay. 
This splendid and famous cavalier. 
With his Rupert hat and his popery. 
To Merry England over the sea. 
As being unmeet to inhabit here. 

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christo- 
pher, 

Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 

The first w^lio furnished this barren 
land 

With apples of Sodom and ropes of 
sand. 



316 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



FINALE. 

These are the tales those merry guests 
Told to each other, well or ill ; 
Like summer birds that lift their crests 
Above the borders of their nests 
And twitter, and again are still. 

These are the tales, or new or old, 
In idle moments idly told ; 
Flowers of the field with petals thin. 
Lilies that neither toil nor spin, 
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse 
Hung in the parlor of the inn 
Beneath the sign of the Ked Horse. 

And still, reluctant to retire. 
The friends sat talking by the fire 
And watched the smouldering embers 

burn 
To ashes, and flash up again 
Into a momentary glow. 
Lingering like them when forced to go, 
And going when they would remain ; 
For on the morrow they must turn 
Their faces homeward, and the pain 
Of parting touched with its unrest 
A tender nerve in every breast. 

But sleep at last the victory won ; 
They must be stirring with the sun. 
And drowsily good night they said. 
And went still gossiping to bed. 
And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. 
The only live thing in the room 
Was the old clock, that in its pace 
Xept time with the revolving spheres 
And constellations in their flight. 
And struck with its uplifted mace 



The dark, unconscious hours of night, 
To senseless and unlistening ears. 

Uprose the sun ; and every guest, 
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed 
For journeying home and city-ward ; 
The old stage-coach was at the door. 
With horses harnessed, long before 
The sunshine reached the withered sward 
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar 
Murmured : " Farewell 'forevermore." 

*• Farewell ! " the portly Landlord cried •, 
" Farewell ! " the parting guests replied, 
But little thought that nevermore 
Their feet would pass that threshold 

o'er ; 
That nevermore together there 
Would they assemble, free from care. 
To hear the oaks' mysterious roar. 
And breathe the wholesome country air. 

Where are they now ? What lands and 

skies 
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes ? 
What hope deludes, what promise 

cheers, 
What pleasant voices fill their ears ? 
Two are beyond the salt sea waves. 
And three already in their graves. 
Perchance the living still may look 
Into the pages of this book, 
And see the days of long ago 
Floating and fleeting to and fro. 
As in the well-remembered brook 
They saw the inverted landscape gleam. 
And their own faces like a dream 
Look up upon them from below. 



PALINGENESIS. 



FLOWER-DE-LUC 




FLOWER~DE-LUCE. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still riv- 
ers, 
Or solitary mere, 
Or where the sluggish meadow- brook 
delivers 
Its waters to the weir ! 

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and 
worry 
Of spindle and of loom, 
And the great wheel that toils amid the 
hurry 
And rushing of the flume. 

Born in the purple, born to joy and 
pleasance, 
Thou dost not toil nor spin, 
But makest glad and radiant with thy 
presence 
The meadow and the lin. 

The wind blows, and uplifts thy droop- 
ing banner, 
And round thee throng and run 
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy 
manor, 
The outlaws of the sun. 

The burnished dragon-fly is thine at- 
tendant. 
And tilts against the field, 
And down the listed sunbeam rides re- 
splendent 
With steel-blue mail and shield. 

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fair- 
est, 
Who, armed with golden rod 
And winged with the celestial azure, 
bearest 
The message of some God. 

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded 
cities 
Hauntest the sylvan streams. 
Playing on pipes of reed the artless dit- 
ties 
That come to us as dreams. 



flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the 
river 
Linger to kiss thy feet ! 
flower of song, bloom on, and make 
forever 
The world more fair and sweet. 



PALINGENESIS. 

I LAY upon the headland-height, and 

listened 
To the incessant sobbing of the sea 

In caverns under me. 
And watched the waves, that tossed and 

fled and glistened. 
Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 
Melted away in mist. 

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I 

started ; 
For round about me all the sunny 

capes 
Seemed peopled with the shapes 
Of those whom I had known in days de« 

parted, 
Apparelled in the loveliness which 

gleams 
On faces seen in dreams. 

A moment only, and the light and glory 
Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 

Stood lonely as before ; 
And the wild-roses of the promontory 
Around me shuddered in the wind, and 

• shed 

Their petals of pale red. 

There was an old belief that in the em 

bers 
Of all things their primordial form exists. 

And cunning alchemists 
Could re-create the rose with all its 

members 
From its own ashes, but without the 
bloom, 
Without the lost perfume. 

Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult 
science 



318 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



Can from the ashes in our hearts once 
more 
The rose of youth restore ? 
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance 
le an( 
hour 
Renew this phantom-flower ? 

"0, give me back," I cried, "the van- 
ished splendors, 
The breath of morn, and the exultant 
strife. 
When the swift stream of life 
Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and sur- 
renders 
The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 
Into the unknown deep ! " 

And the sea answered, with a lamenta- 
tion, 
Like some old prophet wailing, and it 
said, 
"Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 
It breathes no more, its heart has no 

pulsation ; 
In the dark places Avith the dead of old 
It lies forever cold ! " 

Then said I , " From its consecrated 

cerements 
I will not drag this sacred dust again, 

Only to give me pain ; 
But, still remembering all the lost en- 
dearments, 
Go on my way, like one who looks be- 
fore, 
And turns to weep no more." 

Into what land of harvests, what planta- 
tions 
Bright with autumnal foliage and the 
glow 
Of sunsets burning low ; 
Beneath what midnight skies, whose con- 
stellations 
Light up the spacious avenues between 
This world and the unseen ! 

Amid what friendly greetings and ca- 
resses, 
What households, though not alien, yet 
not mine, 
What bowers of rest divine ; 
To what temptations in lone wildernesses, 
What famine of the heart, what pain and 
loss. 
The bearing of what cross ! 



I do not know ; nor will I vainly ques- 
tion 
Those pages of the mystic book which 
hold 
The story still untold. 
But without rash conjecture or suggestion 
Turn its last leaves in reverence and 
good heed, 
Until "The End" I read. 



THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. 

Burn, evening hearth, and waken 
Pleasant visions, as of old ! 

Thc\(gh the house by winds be shaken, 
Safe I keep this room of gold ! 

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 
Builds her castles in the air. 

Luring me by necromancy 
Up the never-ending stair ! 

But, instead, she builds me bridges 

Over many a dark ravine. 
Where beneath the gusty ridges 

Cataracts dash and roar unseen. 

And I cross them, little heeding 
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, 

As I follow the receding 

Footsteps that have gone before. 

Naught avails the imploring gesture, 
" Naught avails the cry of pain ! 
When I touch the flying vesture, 
'T is the giay robe of the rain. 

Baffled I return, and, leaning 

O'er the parapets of cloud, 
Watch the mist that intervening 

Wraps the valley in its shroud. 

And the sounds of life ascending 
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear. 

Murmur of bells and voices blending 
With the rush of waters near. 

Well I know what there lies hidden, 
Every tower and town and fann, 

And again the land forbidden 
Reassumes its vanished charm. 

Well I know the secret places. 

And the nests in hedge and tree ; 
At what doors are friendly faces, 
I In what hearts are thoughts of me. 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 



319 



Througll tne mist and darkness sinking, 
Blown by wind and beaten by shower, 

Down 1 fling the thought I 'm thinking, 
Down I toss this Alpine flower. 



HAWTHORNE. 

May 23, 1864. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright 
day 
In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase 
away 
The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple- 
blooms, 

And the gi'eat elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old 
manse. 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed 
strange ; 
Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they uttered seemed 
to change 
Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not 
there, 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence tilled the air, 

And baffled my pursuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 
and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
i only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast. 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 
The ^vi^aTd hand lies cold. 



Which at its topmost speed let fall the 
pen. 
And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic 
power, 
And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's 
tower 
Unfinished must remain ! 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

I HEARD the bells on Chri^mas Day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

Had rolled along 

The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 

The world revolved from night to day, 

A voice, a chime, ^ 

A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 

And with the sound 

The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 

The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And in despair I bowed my head ; 
"There is no peace on earth," I said ■ 

'* For hate is strong, 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : 
** God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep 1 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail. 
With peace on earth, good-will to men ) " 



320 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



THE WI2s"D OVER THE CHIM- 
NEY. 

See, the fire is sinking low, 
Dusky red the embers glow, 

While above them still I cower, 
While a moment more I linger. 
Though the clock, with lifted, linger, 

Points beyond the midnight hour. 

Sings the blackened log a tune 
Learned in some forgotten June 

From a school-boy at his play. 
When they both were young together, 
Heart of youth and summer weather 

Making all their holiday. 

And the night-wind rising, hark ! 
How above there in the dark, 

In the midnight and the snow, 
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander. 
Like the trumpets of Iskander, 

All the noisy chimneys blow ! 

Every quivering tongue of flame 
Seems to murmur some gi'eat name. 

Seems to say to me, " Aspire ! " 
But the night-wind answers, " Hollow 
Are the visions that you follow. 

Into darkness sinks your fire ! " 

Then the flicker of the blaze 
Gleams on volumes of old days, 

Written by masters of the art. 
Loud through whose majestic pages 
Rolls the melod}^ of ages, 

Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 

And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting and exclaim : 

"These are prophets, bards, andseers : 
In the horoscope of nations. 
Like ascendant constellations. 

They control the coming years." 

But the night-wind cries : " Despair ! 
Those who walk with feet of air 

Leave no long-enduring marks ; 
At God's forges incandescent 
Mighty hammers beat incessant, 

These are but the flying sparks. 

" Dust are all the hands that wrought •, 
Books are sepulchres of thought ; 

The dead laurels of the dead 
Rustle for a moment only, 
Like the withered leaves in lonely 

Churchyards at some passing tread." 



Suddenly the flame sinks down ; 
Sink the rumors of renown ; 

And alone the night- wind drear 
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 
" 'T is the brand of Meleager 

Dying on the hearth-stone here ! " 

And I answer, — " Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 

No endeavor is in vain ; 
Its reward is in the doing, 
And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize the vanquished gain." 

THE BELLS OF LYNN 

HEARD AT NAHANT. 

CURFEW of the setting sun ! Bells 

of Lynn ! 
requiem of the dying day ! Bells 

of Lynn ! 

From the dark belfries of yon cloud- 
cathedral wafted. 

Your sounds aerial seem to float, G Bells 
of Lynn ! 

Borne on the evening wind across the 

crimson twilight. 
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, 

Bells of Lynn ! 

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond 

the headland. 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, Bells 

of Lynn ! 

Over the shining sands the wandeung 

cattle homeward 
Follow each other at your call, Bells 

of Lynn ! 

The distant lighthouse hears, and with 

his flaming signal 
Answers vou, passing the watchword on, 

Bells of Lynn ! 

And down the darkening coast "Viin the 

tumultuous surges, 
And clap their hands, and shout to you, 

Bells of Lynn ! 

Till from the shuddering sea, with your 

wild incantations. 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, 

Bells of Lynn I 



TO-MORROW. 



321 



And startled at the sight, like the weird 

woman of Endor, 
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, Bells 

of Lynn ! 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth. 
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth. 
He, the life and light of us all, 
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 
Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose 

pleasant word, 
Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along, 
Down the dark of the mountain ga}). 
To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 
Little dreaming of any mishap, 
He was humming the words of some old 

song : 
*' Two red roses he had on his cap. 
And another he bore at the point of his 

sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 
(3ame out of a wood, and the voice was 

still ; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall. 
And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 
In a room where some one is lying dead ; 
fiut he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again. 
And through the mire and the mist and 

the rain 
Carried him back to the silent camp. 
And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's 

lamp 
Two white roses upon his cheeks. 
And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 
That fatal bullet went speeding forth. 
Till it reached a town in the distant 

North, 
Till it reached a house in a sunny street. 
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 
Without a murmur, without a cry ; 
And abell was tolled, in that far-otf town. 
For one who had passed from cross to 

crown. 
And the neighbors wondered that she 

should die. 

21 



GIOTTO'S TOWER. 

How many lives, made beautiful and 

sweet 
By self-devotion and by self-restraint, 
Whose pleasure is to run without 

complaint 
On unknown errands of the Paraclete, 
Wanting the reverence of unshodden 

feet. 
Fail of the nimbus which the artists 

paint 
Around the shining forehead of the 

saint. 
And are in their completeness incom- 
plete ! 
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's 

tower, 
The lily of Florence blossoming in 

stone, — 
A vision, a delight, and a desire, — 
The builder's perfect and centennial 

flower. 
That in the night of ages bloomed 

alone. 
But wanting still the glory of the spire. 



TO-MORROW. 

'T IS late at night, and in the realm of 

sleep 
My little lambs are folded like the 

flocks ; 
From room to room I hear the wakeful 

clocks 
Challenge the passing hour, like guards 

that keep 
Their solitary watch on tower and 

steep ; 
Far oft' I hear the crowing of the 

cocks. 
And through the opening door that 

time unlocks 
Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow 

creep. 
To-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown 

guest. 
Who cries to me: "Remember Bar- 
mecide, 
And tremble to be happy with the 

rest." 
And I make answer : " I am satisfied ; 
I dare not ask ; I know not what is 

best ; 
God hath already said what shall be- 

fde." 



322 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 



DIVINA COMMEDIA. 



Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
A laborer, pausing in the dust and 

heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with rever- 
ent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on the 
floor 
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; 
Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 
The loud vociferations of the street 
Become an undistinguishable roar. 
So, as I enter here from day to day. 
And leave my burden at this minster 

gate, ^ 
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed 
to pray, 
The tumult of the time disconsolate 
To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
While the eternal ages watch and wait. 



How strange the sculptures that adorn 

these towers ! 
This crowd of statues, in whose folded 

sleeves 
Birds build their nests ; whilecanopied 

Avith leaves 
Par vis and portal bloom like trellised 

bowers, 
And the vast minster seems a cross of 

flowers ! 
But fiends and dragons on the gar- 

goyled eaves 
Watch the dead Christ between the 

living thieves, 
And, underneath, the traitor Judas 

lowers ! 
Ah ! from what agonies of heart and 

brain. 
What exultations trampling on de- 
spair, 
What tenderness, what tears, what 

hate of wrong, 
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain. 
Uprose this poem of the earth and air. 
This mediseval mii-acle of song ! 



I KNTER, and I see thee in the gloom 
Of the long aisles, poet saturnine ! 
And strive to make my steps keep 
pace with thine. 



The air is filled with some unknown 

perfume ; 
The congregation of the dead make room 
For thee to pass ; the votive tapers 

shine ; 
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's 

groves of pine 
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to 

tomb. 
From the confessionals I hear arise 
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, 
And lamentations from the crypts be- 
low ; 
And then a voice celestial, that begins 
With the pathetic words, "Although 

your sins 
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the 

snow. " 



With snow-white veil and garments as 

of flame, 
She stands before thee, who so long 

ago 
Filled thy young heart with passion 

and the woe 
From which thy song and all its splen- 
dors came ; 
And while with stern rebuke she speaks 

thy name. 
The ice about thy heart melts as the 

snow 

Qiouni 

overflow 
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs 

of shame. 
Thou makest full confession ; and a 

gleam. 
As of the dawn on some dark forest 

cast. 
Seems on thy lifted forehead to in- 
crease ; 
Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered 

dream 
And the forgotten sorrow — bring at 

last 
That perfect pardon which is perfect 

peace. 



I LIFT mine eyes, and all the windows 

blaze 
With forms of saints and holy men 

who died, 
Here martyred and hereafter glorified ; 



1 






NOEL. 



323 



And the great Rose upon its leaves 
displays 
Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roun- 
delays, 

"With splendor upon splendor multi- 
plied ; 

And Beatrice again at Dante's side 

No more rebukes, but smiles her 
words of praise. 
And then the organ sounds, and unseen 
choirs 

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace 
and love. 

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost ; 
And the melodious bells among the spires 

O'er all the house-tops and through 
heaven above 

Proclaim the elevation of the Host ! 



STAR of morning and of liberty ! 

bringer of the light, whose splendor 
shines 

Above the darkness of the Apennines, 

Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 
The voices of the city and the sea. 

The voices of the mountains and the 
pines, 

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 

Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! 
Thy fame is blown abroad from all the 
heights, 

Through all the nations, and a sound 
is heard. 

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 
Strangers of Rome, and the new prose- 
lytes, 

In their own language hear thy won- 
drous word, 

And many are amazed and many 
doubt. 



NOEL. 

KNV0Y6 A. M. AGASSrZ, LA VEILLE DE 
NOEL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE 
VINS DIVERS. 

L'Academie en respect, 
Nonobstant I'incorrection 
A la faveur du sujet, 

Ture-lure, 
N'y fera point Je rature , 
Noel ! ture-lure-lure. 

Gur BarSzai 

QuAND les astres de Noel 
Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, 



Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 
Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, 

" Bons amis 
Allons done chez Agassiz ! " 

Ces illustres Pelerins 
D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins, 
Se donnant des airs de pretre, 
A I'envi se vantaient d'etre 

" Bons amis 
De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz ! " 



Qj!il-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 
Sans i-eproche et sans pudeur, 
Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai danse chez Agassiz ! " 



Verzenay le Champenois, 
Bon Fran9ais, point New-Yorquois, 
Mais des environs d'Avize, 
Fredonne k mainte reprise, 

' ' Bons amis, 
J'ai chante chez Agassiz ! " 

A cote marchait un vieux 
Hidalgo, niais non mousseux ; 
Dans Te temps de Charlemagne 
Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne ! 

" Bons amis 
J'ai dine chez Agassiz ! " 

Derriere eux un Bordelais, 
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, 
Parfume de poesie 
Riait, chantait, plein de vie, 

" Bons amis, 
J'ai soupe chez Agassiz ! " 

Avec ce beau cadet roux, 
Bras dessus et bras dessous, 
Mine altiere et couleur terne, 
Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; 

*' Bons amis, 
J'ai couche chez Agassiz ! " 

JVfais le dernier de ces preux, 
Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, 
" Benedictions sur le Juste ! 

Bons amis 
B^nissons Fhre Agassiz ! " 



324 



JUDAS MACCABiEUS. 



lis arrivent trois a trois, 
Montent I'escalier de bois 
Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme 
Peut permettre ce vacarme, 

Bons amis, 
A la porta d'Agassiz ! 

' * Ouvrez done, men bon Seigneur, 
Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; 
Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 



Gens de bien et gentilshommes, 

Bons amis 
De la famille Agassiz ! " 

Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous ! 
C'en est trop de vos glouglous ; 
Epargnez aux Philosophes 
Vos abominables strophes ! 

Bons amis, 
Respectez mon Agassiz ! 



JUDAS MACCABEUS 



ACT I. 

The fy,adel of Antiochus at Jerusalem. 
Scene I. — Antiochus ; Jason. 

Antiochus. Autioch, my Antioch, 

my city ! 
Queen of the East ! my solace, my 

delight ! 
The dowry of my sister Cleopatra 
When she was wed to Ptolemy, and 

now 
Won back and made more wonderful by 

me ! 
1 love thee, and I long to be once more 
Among the players and the dancing 

women 
Within thy gates, and bathe in the 

Orontes, 
Thy river and mine. Jason, my 

High- Priest, 
For 1 have made thee so, and thou art 

mine, 
Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful ? 
Jason. Never, my Lord, 
Ant. Then hast thou never seen 

The wonder of the world. This city of 

David 
Compared with Antioch is but a vil- 
lage. 
And its inhabitants compared with 

Greeks 
Are mannerless boors. 

Jason. They are barbarians, 

A-ud mannerless. 

Ant. They must be civilized. 

They must be made to have more gods 

than one ; 
And goddesses besides. 



Jason. They shall have more. 

Ant. They must have hippodromes, 
and games, and baths. 
Stage-plays and festivals, and most of all 
The Dionysia. 

Jason. They shall have them all. 
Ant. By Heracles ! but I should like 
to see 
These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and 

arrayed 
In skins of fawns, with drums and 

flutes and thyrsi. 
Revel and riot through the solemn 

streets 
Of their old town. Ha, ha ! It makes 

me merry 
Only to think of it ! — Thou dost not 
laugh. 
Jason. Yea, I laugh inwardly. 
Ant. The new Greek leaven 

Works slowly in this Israelitish dough ! 
Have I not sacked the Temple, and on 

the altar 
Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus 
To Hellenize it ? 

Jason. Thou hast done all this. 

Ant. As thou wast Joshua once and 
now art Jason, 
And from a Hebrew hast become a 

Greek, 
So shall this Hebrew nation be trans- 
lated, 
Their very natures and their names be 

changed. 
And all be Hellenized. 

Jason. It shall be done. 

Ant. Their manners and their laws 
and way of living 
Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn 
their language, 



JUDAS MACCABiEUS. 



325 



And learn the lovely speech of Antioch. 
Where hast thou been to-day ? Thou 
comest late. 
Jason. Playing at discus with the 
other priests 
In the Gymnasium. 

Ant. Thou hast done well. 

There 's nothing better for you lazy 

priests 
Than discus-playing with the common 

people. 
Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews 

call me 
When they converse together at their 
games. 
Jason. Antiochus Epiphanes, my 
Lord ; 
Antiochus the Illustrious. 

Ant. 0, not that ; 

That is the public cry ; I mean the 

name 
They give me when they talk among 

themselves, 
And think that no one listens ; what is 
that ? 
Jason. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord ! 
Ant. Antiochus the Mad ! Ay, that 
is it. 
And who hath said it ? Who hath set 

in motion 
That sorry jest ? 

Jason. The Seven Sons insane 

Of a weird woman, like themselves in- 
sane. 
Ant. I like their courage, but it shall 
not save them. 
They shall be made to eat the flesh of 

swine, 
Or they shall die. Where are they ? 

Jason. In the dungeons 

Beneath this tower. 

Ant. There let them stay and starve. 
Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, 
After my fashion. 

Jason. They shall stay and starve. — 
My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria 
Await thy pleasure. 

Ant. Why not my displeasure ? 

Ambassadors are tedious. They are 

men 
Who work for their own ends, and not 

for mine ; 
There is no furtherance in them. Let 

them go 
To Apollonius, my governor 
There in Samaria, and not trouble me. 
What do they want ? 



Jason. Only the royal sanction 

To give a name l^nto a nameless temple 
Upon iTouut Gerizim. 

Ant. Then bid them enter. 

This pleasts me, and furthers my designs. 
The occasion is auspici'^us. Bid them 
enter. 



Scene II. — Antiochus; Jason ; the Sa 
MARiTAN Ambassadors. 

Ant. Approach. Comeforward; stan(? 
not at the door 
Wagging your long beards, but demean 

yourselves 
As doth become Ambassadors. Whaf 
seek ye ? 
An Ambassador. An audience fi'onp 

the King. 
Ant. Speak, and be brief. 

Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. 
Words are not things. 

A^nhassador {reading). "■ To Kin^ 
Antiochus, 
The God, Epiphanes ; a Memorial 
From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem. " 
Ant. Sidonians ? 
Ambassador. Ay, my Lord. 

Ant. Go on, go on ! 

And do not tire thyself and me with 
bowing ! 
Ambassador (reading) . ' ' We are a col- 
ony of Medes and Persians." 
Ant. No, ye are Jews from one of the 
Ten Tribes ; 
Whether Sidonians or Samaritans 
Or Jews of Jewr}^ matters not to me ; 
Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. 
When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred 

^^•ith them ; 
When the Jews suff"er, ye are Medes and 

Persians : 
I know that in the days of Alexander 
Ye claimed exemption from the annual 

tribute 
In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said. 
Your fields had not been planted in that 
year. 
Ambassador {reading). "Our fathers, 
upon certain frequent plagues. 
And following an ancient superstition. 
Were long accustomed to observe that 

day 
Which by the Israelites is called the 

Sabbath, 
And in a temple on Mount Gerizim 



326 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Without a name, they offered sacrifice. 
Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech 

thee, 
Who art our benefactor and our savior, 
Not to confound us with these wicked 

Jews, 
But to give royal order and injunction 
To Apollonius in Samaria. 
Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, 
Thy jDrocurator, no more to molest us ; 
And let our nameless temple now be 

named 
The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius." 
Ant. This shall be done. Full well 

it pleaseth me 
Ye are not Jews, or are mo longer Jews, 
But Greeks ; if not by birth, yet Greeks 

by CQstom. 
Your nameless temple shall receive the 

name 
Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go ! 



Scene III. — Antiochds ; Jason. 

Ant. My task is easier than I dreamed. 

These people 
Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou 

take note 
How these Samaritans of Sichem said 
They were not Jews ? that they were 

Medes and Persians, 
They were Sidonians, anything but Jews ? 
'T is of good augury. The rest will fol- 
low 
Till the whole land is Hellenized. 

Jason. My Lord, 

These are Samaritans. The tribe of 

Judah 
Is of a different temper, and the task 
Will be more difficult. 
Ant. Dost thou gainsay me ? 

Jason. I know the stubborn nature 

of the Jew. 
Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man. 
Being fourscore years and ten, chose 

rather death 
By torture than to eat the flesh of swine. 
Ant. Tlie life is in the blood, and the 

whole nation 
Shall bleed to death, or it shall change 

its faith ! 
Jason. Hundreds have fled already to 

the mountains 
Of Ephraim, Avhere Judas Maccabaeus 
Hath raised the standard of revolt against 

thee. 



A7it. I will burn down their city, and 
will make it 
Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares 
Shall be but furrows in a field -of ashes. 
It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is ! 
This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad 
Shall have a broad and blood-red seal 

upon it. 
Stamped with the awful letters of my 

name, 
Antiochus the God, Epiphanes ! — 
Where are those Seven Sons ? 

Jason. My Lord, they wait 

Thy royal pleasure. 

Ant. They shall wait no longer ! 



ACT II. 

The Dungeons in the Citadel. 

Scene I. — The Mother of the Seven Sons 
alone, listening. 

The Mother. Be strong, my heart ! 

Break not till they are dead, 
All, all my Seven Sons ; then burst 

asunder. 
And let this tortured and tormented soul 
Leap and rush out like water through the 

shards 
Of earthen vessels broken at a well. 

my dear children, mine in life and 

death, 

1 know not how ye came into my womb ; 
I neither gave you breath, nor gave vou 

life. 
And neither was it I that formed the 

members 
Of every one of you. But the Creator, 
Who made the world, and made the 

heavens above us, 
Who formed the generation of man- 
kind, 
And found out the beginning of all 

things. 
He gave you breath and life, and will 

again 
Of his own mercy, as ye now regard 
Not your own selves, but his eternal 

law. 
I do not murmur, nay, I thank thee, 

God, 
Til at I and mine have not been deemed 

unworthy 
To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, 
And for the many sins of Israel. 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



827 



Hark ! I can hear within the sound of 

scourges ! 
I feel them more than ye do, my 

sons ! 
But cannot come to you. I, who was 

wont 
To wake at night at the least cry ye 

made, 
To whom ye ran at every slightest 

hurt, — 
I cannot take you now into my lap 
And soothe your pain, but God will take 

you all 
Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, 
And give you rest. 

A Voice {ivithin). What wouldst thou 

ask of us ? 
Ready are we to die, but we will never 
Transgress the law and customs of our 

fathers. 
The Mother. It is the voice of ray 

fir.st-born ! brave 
And noble boy ! Thou hast the 

privilege 
Of dying iirst, as .thou wast born the 

first. 
The same Voice (within). God looketh 

on us, and hath comfort in us ; 
As Moses in his song of old declared, 
He in his servants shall be comforted. 
The Mother. I knew thou wouldst not 

fail ! — He speaks no more. 
He is beyond all pain ! 

Ant. {within). If thou eat not 

Thou shalt be tortured throughout all 

the members 
Of thy Avhole body. Wilt thou eat 

then ? 
Second Voice (within). No. 
The Mother. It is Adaiah's voice. I 

tremble for him. 
I know his nature, devious as the 

wind, 
And swift to change, gentle and 

yielding always. 
Be steadfast, my son > 
' T/ie same Voice (within). Thou, like 

a fury, 
■Takest us from this present life, but 

God, 
Who rules the world, shall raise us up 

again 
Into life everlasting. 
^ ^ The Mother. God, I thank thee 

That thou hast breathed into that timid 

heart 
Courage to die for thee. my Adaiah, 



Witness of God ! if thou for whom I 

feared 
Canst thus encounter death, I need not 

fear ; 
The others will not shrink. 

Third Voice (within). Behold these 

hands 
Held out to thee, King Antiochus, 
Not to implore thy mercy, but to show 
That I despise them. He who gave 

them to me 
Will give them back again. 

IVie Mother. Avilan, 

It is thy voice. For the last iime 1 

hear it ; 
For the last time on earth, but not the 

last. 
To death it bids defiance and to torture. 
It sounds to me as from another world. 
And makes the petty miseries of this 
Seem unto me as naught, and less than 

naught. 
Farewell, my Avilan ; nay, I should say 
Welcome, my Avilan ; for I am dead 
Before thee. I am waiting for the 

others. 
Why do they linger ? 

Fourth Voice (within). It is good, 

King, 
Being put to death by men, to look for 

hope 
From God, to be raised up again by him. 
But thou — no resurrection shalt thou 

have 
To life hereafter. 

The Mother. Four ! already four ! 
Three are still living ; nay, they all are 

living, 
Half here, half there. Make haste, 

Antiochus, 
To reunite us ; for the sword that 

cleaves 
These miserable bodies makes a door 
Through which our souls, impatient of 

release, 
Rush to each other's arms. 

Fifth Voice (within). Thou hast the 

power ; 
Thou doest Avhat thou wilt. Abide 

awhile. 
And thou shalt see the power of God, 

and how 
He will torment thee and thy seed. 

The Mother. hasten ; 

Why dost thou pause ? Thou who hast 

slain already 
So many Hebrew women, and hast hung 



328 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Their murdered infants round their 

necks, slay me, 
For I too am a woman, and these boys 
Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, 
And hang my lifeless babes about my; 

neck. 
Sixth Voice [witlmi). Think not, 

Antiochus, that takest in hand 
To strive against the God of Israel, 
Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his 

wrath 
Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house. 
The Mother. One more, my Sirion, and 

then all is ended. 
Having put all to bed, then in my turn 
I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. 
My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved ! 
And those bright golden locks, that 1 so 

oft 
Have curled about these fingers, even now 
Are foul with blood and dust, like a 

lamb's fieece. 
Slain in the shambles. — Not a sound I 

hear. 
This silence is more terrible to me 
Than any sound, than any cry of pain, 
That might escape the lips of one who 

dies. 
Doth his heart fail him ? Doth he fall 

away 
In the last hour from God ? Sirion, 

Sirion, 
Art thou afraid ? I do not hear thy 

voice. 
Die as thy brothers died. Thou must 

not live ! 



Scene II. — The Mother ; Antiochus ; 
Sirion. 

The Mother. Are they all dead ? 

Ant. Of all thy Seven Sons 

One only lives. Behold them where they 

lie; 
How dost thou like this picture ? 

The Mother. God in heaven ! 

Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die 
By the recoil of his own wickedness ? 
Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies 
That were my children once, and still 

are mine, 
I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah watched 
In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, 
Till water drop upon j'ou out of heaven 
(Vnd wash this blood away ! I cannot 
mourn 



As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned 

the dead, 
From the beginning of the barley-hai-vest 
Until the autumn rains, and suffered not 
The birds of air to rest on them by day, 
Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye 

have died 
A better death, a death so full of life 
That I ought rather to rejoice than 

mourn. — 
Wherefore art thou not dead, Sirion ] 
Wherefore art thou the only living thing 
Among thy brothers dead ? Art thou 
afraid ? 
Ant. woman, I have spared him for 
thy sake. 
For he is fair to look upon and comely ; 
And 1 have sworn to him by all the 

gods 
That 1 would crown his life with joy and 

honor, 
Heap treasures on him, luxuries, de- 
lights, 
Make him my friend and keeper of my 

secrets. 

If he would turn from your Mosaic Law 

And be as we are ; but he Avill not listen. 

The Mother. ]\Iy noble Sirion ! 

Ant. Therefore I beseech thee, 

Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak 

with him. 
And wouldst persuade him. I am sick 
of blood. 
The Mother. Yea, I Mill speak with 
him and will persuade him. 
Sirion, my son ! have pity on me, 
On me that bare thee, and that gave thee 

suck. 
And fed and nourished thee, and brought 

thee up 
With the dear trouble of a mother's care 
Unto this age. Look on the heavens 

above thee. 
And on the earth and all that is therein ; 
Consider that God made them out of 

things 
That were not ; and that likewise in this 

manner 
Mankind was made. Then fear not this 

tormentor ; 
But, being worthy of thy brethren, take 
Thy death as they did, that I may re- 

/ ceive thee 
Again in mercy with them. 

Ant. I am mocked, 

Yea, I am laughed to scorn. 

Sirion. Whom wait ye for » 



JUDAS MACCAJBiEUS. 



329 



Never will 1 obey the King's command- 
ment, 

But the commandment of the ancient 
Law, 

That was by Moses given unto our fa- 
thers. 

And thou, godless man, that of all 
others 

Art the most wicked, be not lifted 



up, 

iffec 



Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, uji- 

lifting 
Thy hand against the servants of the 

Lord, 
For thou hast not escaped the righteous 

judgment 
Of the Almighty God, who seeth all 

things ! 
Ant. He is no God of mine ; I fear 

him not. 
Sirion. My brothers, who have suf- 
fered a brief pain. 
Are dead ; but thou, Antiochus, shalt 

suffer 
The punishment of pride. I offer up 
My body and my life, beseeching God 
That he would speedily be merciful 
Unto our nation, and that thou by 

plagues 
Mysterious and by torments mayest con- 
fess 
That he alone is God. 

Ant. Ye both shall perish 

By torments worse than any that your 

God, 
Here or hereafter, hath in store for me. 
The Mother. My Sirion, 1 am proud 

of thee ! 
Ant. Be silent ! 

Go to thy bed of torture in yon cham- 
ber, 
Where lie so many sleepers, heartless 

mother ! 
Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor 

thy voice. 
Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled 

dreams, 
Thy children crying for thee in the night ! 
The Mother. Death, that stretchest 

thy white hands to me, 
/ fear them not, but press them to my 

lips, 
That are as white as thine ; for I am 

Death, 
Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing 

these sons 
All lying lifeless. — Kiss me, Sirion. 



ACT in. 

The Battle-field of Beth-horon. 

Scene I. — Judas Maccabeus in armor 
before his tent. 

Judas. The trumpets sound ; the 

echoes of the mountains 
Answer them, as the Sabbaith morning 

breaks 
Over Beth-horon and its battle-field, 
Where the great captain of the hosts of 

God, 
A slave brought up in the brick-fields of 

Egypt, 
O'ercame the Amorites. There was no 

day 
Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. 
The sun stood still ; the hammers of the 

hail 
Beat on their harness ; and the captains 

set 
Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, 
As I will upon thine, Antiochus, 
Thou man of blood ! — Behold the rising 

sun 
Strikesouthe golden letters of my banner, 
Be Elohim Yehovah ! Who is like 
To thee, Lord, among the gods ? 

~ Alas ! 
I am not Joshua, I cannot say, 
"Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and 

thou Moon, 
In Ajalon ! " Nor am I one who wastes 
The fateful time in useless lamentation ; 
But one who bears his life upon his hand 
To lose it or to save it, as may best 
Serve the designs of Him who giveth 

life. 



Scene II. 



• Judas MAccABiEUS ; Jewisb 
Fugitives. 



Judas. Who and what are ye, that 
with furtive steps 
Steal in among our tents ? 

Fiujitives. Maccabseus^ 

Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, 
Jews of Jerusalem, that have escaped 
From the polluted city, and from death. 

Judas. None can escape from death. 
Say that ye come 
To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. 
What tidings bring ye ? 

Fugitives. Tidings of despair 



330 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



The Temple is laid waste ; the precious 

vessels, 
Censers of gold, vials and veils and 

crowns, 
And golden ornaments, and hidden treas- 
ures. 
Have all been taken from it, and the 

Gentiles 
With revelling and with riot fill its 

courts, 
And dally with harlots in the holy places. 
Judas. All this I knew before. 
Fugitives. Upon the altar 

Are things profane, things by the law 

forbidden ; 
Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our 

Feasts, 
But on the festivals of Dionysus 
Must walk in their processions, bearing 

ivy 
To crown a drunken god. 

Judas. This too I know. 

But tell me of the Jews. How fare the 

Jews ? 
Fugitives. The coming of this mis- 
chief hath been sore 
And gi'ievous to the people. All the 

land 
Is full of lamentation and of mourning. 
The Princes and the Elders weep and 

wail ; 
The young men and the maidens are 

made feeble ; 
The beauty of the women hath been 

changed. 
Judas. And are there none to die for 

Israel ? 
'T is not enough to mourn. Breastplate 

and harness 
Are better things than sackcloth. Let 

the women 
Lament for Israel ; the men should die. 
Fugitives. Both men and women die ; 

old men and young : 
Old Eleazer died : and Mahala 
With all her Seven Sons. 

Judas. Antiochus, 

At every step thou takest there is left 
A bloody footprint in the street, by 

winch 
The avenging wrath of God will track 

thee out ! 
It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents : 
Those of you who are men, put on such 

armor 
A-s ye may find ; those of you who are 

women. 



Buckle that aimor on ; and for a watch- 
word 
Whisper, or cry aloud, ' ' The Help of 

God." 



Scene III. — Judas MACCABiEus ; Nica- 

NOR. 

Nicanor. Hail, Judas Maccabseus ! 
Judas. Hail ! — Who art thou 

That comest here in this mysterious 

guise 
Into our camp unheralded ? 

Nic. A herald 

Sent from Nicanor. 

Judas. Heralds come not thus. 

Armed with thy shirt of mail from head 

to heel. 
Thou glidest like a serpent silently 
Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou 

turn 
Thy face from me ? A herald speaks 

his errand 
With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy 
Sent by Nicanor. 

Nic. No disguise avails ! 

Behold my face ; I am Nicanor's self. 
Judas. Thou art indeed Nicanor. I 

salute thee. 
What brings thee hither to this hostile 

camp 
Thus unattended ? 

Nic. Confidence in thee. 

Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race, 
Without the failings that attend those 

virtues. 
Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyran- 
nous. 
Canst righteous be and not intolerant. 
Let there be peace between us. 

Judas. What is peace ? 

Is it to bow in silence to our victors ? 
Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged, 
Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or 

fleeing 
At night-time by the blaze of burning 

towns ; 
Jerusalem laid waste ; the Holy Temple 
Polluted with strange gods ? Are these 

things peace ? 
Nic. These are the dire necessities 

that wait 
On war, whose loud and bloody enginery 
I seek to stay. Let there be peace be. 

tween 
Antiochus and thee. 



A 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



331 



Judas. Antiochus ? 

What is Antiochus, that he should prate 
Of peace to me, who am a fugitive ? 
To-day he shall be lifted up ; to-morrow 
Shall not be found, because he is re- 
turned 
Unto his dust ; his thought has come to 

nothing. 
There is no peace between us, nor can 

be, 
Until this banner floats upon the walls 
Of our Jerusalem. 

Nic. Between that city 

And thee there lies a weaving wall of 

tents, 
Held by a host of forty thousand foot, 
And horsemen seven thousand. What 

hast thou 
To bring against all these ? 

Judas. The power of God, 

Whose breath shall scatter your white 

tents abroad, 
As flakes of snow. 

Nic. Your Mighty One in heaven 

Will not do battle on the Seventh Day ; 
It is his day of rest. 

Judas. Silence, blasphemer. 

Go to thy tents. 

Nic. Shall it be war or peace ? 

Judas. War, war, and only war. Go 

to thy tents 

That shall be scattered, as by you were 

scattered 
The torn and trampled pages of the Law, 
Blown through the windy streets. 
Nic. Farewell, brave foe ! 

Judas. Ho, there, my captains ! Have 
safe-conduct given 
Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp. 
And come yourselves to me. — Farewell, 
Nicanor ! 



Scene IV. — Judas Maccab^eus 
TAINS AND Soldiers. 



Cap- 



Jiid/is. The hour is come. Gather 

the host together 
K'or battle. Lo, with trumpets and with 

songs 
The army of Nicanor comes against us. 
Go forth to meet them, praying in your 

hearts. 
And fighting with your hands. 

Ca.ptains. Look forth and see ! 

The morning sun is shining on their 

shields 



Of gold and brass ; the mountains glis- 
ten with them, 
And shine like lamps. And we who are 

so few 
And poorly armed, and ready to faint 

with fasting. 
How shall we fight against this multi- 
tude ? 
Judas. The victory of a battle stand- 

eth not 
In multitudes, but in the strength that 

Cometh 
From heaven above. The Lord forbid 

that I 
Should do this thing, and flee away from 

them. 
Nay, if our hour be come, then let us 

die ; 
Let us not stain our honor. 

Cajdains. 'T is the Sabbath. 

Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Macca- 

bteus ? 
Judas. Ay ; when I fight the battles 

of the Lord, 
I fight them on his day, as on all others. 
Have ye forgotten certain fugitives 
That fled once to these hills, and hid 

themselves 
In caves ? How their pursuers camped 

against them 
Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged 

them? 
And how they answered not, nor cast a 

stone. 
Nor stopped the places where they lay 

concealed. 
But meekly perished with their wives 

and children. 
Even to the number of a thousand souls ? 
We who are fighting for our laws and 

lives 
Will not so perish. 

Captains. Lead us to the battle ! 

Judas. And let our watchword be, 

" The Help of God ! " 
Last night I dreamed a dream ; and in 

my vision 
Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of old. 
Who holding up his hands prayed for 

the Jews. 
This done, in the like manner there ap- 
peared 
An old man, and exceeding glorious, 
With hoavy hair, and of a wonderful 
And excellent majesty. And Onias said : 
"This is a lover of the Jews, who pray- 

eth 



332 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Much for the people and the Holy- 
City, — 
God's prophet Jeremias." And the 

prophet 
Held forth his right hand and gave 

nnto me 
A sword of gold ; and giving it he said : 
" Take thou this holy sword, a gift from 

God, 
And with it thou shaft wound thine 

adversaries." 
Captains. The Lord is with us ! 
Judas. Hark ! I hear the trumpets 
Sound from Beth-horon ; from the bat- 

tle-lield 
Oi Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, 
Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of 

Jarmuth, 
Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, 
As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts 
And leave a memory of great deeds be- 
hind us. 
Captains and Soldiers. The Help of 

God! 
Judas. Be Elohim Yehovah ! 

Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the 

time 
Of Esekias, King of Israel, 
And in the armies of Sennacherib 
Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five 

thousand. 
Wherefore, Lord of heaven, now also 

send 
Before us a good angel for a fear, 
And through the might of thy right arm 

let those 
Be stricken with terror that have come 

this day 
Against thy holy people to blaspheme ! 



ACT IV. 

The outer Courts of the Temple at Jeru- 
salem. 



Scene 



- JUDAS MACCABiEUS ; CAP- 
TAINS ; Jews. 



Judas. Behold, our enemies are dis- 
comfited, 
Jerusalem is fallen ; and our banners 
Float from her battlements, and o'er her 

gates 
Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror. 
Blackens in wind and sun. 

Captains. Maccabseus, 



The citadel of Antiochus, wherein 

The Mother with her Seven Sons was 
murdered, 

Is still defiant. 
Judas. Wait. 

Captains. Its hateful aspect 

Insults us with the bitter memories 

Of other days. 

Judas. Wait ; it shall disappear 

And vanish as a cloud. First let ns 
cleanse 

The Sanctuary. Sse, it is become 

Waste like a wilderness. Its golden 
gates 

Wrenched from their hinges and con- 
sumed by fire ; 

Shrubs growing in its courts as in a for- 
est ; 

Upon its altars hideous and strange 
idols ; 

And strewn about its pavement at my 
feet 

Its Sacred Books, half burned and paint- 
ed o'er 

With images of heathen gods. 
Jews. Woe ! woe ! 

Our beauty and our glory are laid Avaste ! 

The Gentiles have profaned our holy 
places ! 

{Lamentation and alarm of trumpets. ) 

Judas. This sound of trumpets, and 

this lamentation. 
The heart-cry of a people toward the 

heavens, 
Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, 

my captains ; 
I hold you back no longer. Batter 

down 
The citadel of Antiochus, while here 
We sweep away his altars and his gods. 



Scene II. — Judas Maccabeus ; Jason ; 
Jews. 

Jews. Lurking among the ruins of the 

Temple, 
Deep in its inner courts, we found this 

man, 
Clad as High-Priest. 

Judas. I ask not who thou art. 

I know thy face, writ over with deceit 
As are these tattered volumes of the Law 
With heathen images. A priest of God 
Wasc thou in other days, but thou art 

now 



J 



JUDAS MACCABiEUS. 



333 



A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Ja- 
son. 
Jason. I am thy prisoner, Judas Mac- 
cabseus, 
And it would ill become me to conceal 
My name or office. 

Judas. Over yonder gate 

There hangs the head of one who was a 

Greek. 
What should prevent me now, thou man 

of sin, 
From hanging at its side the head of 

one 
Who born a Jew hath made himself a 
Greek ? 
Jason. Justice prevents thee. 
Judas. Justice ? Thou art stained 
With every crime 'gainst which the Deca- 
logue 
Thunders with all its thunder. 

Jason. If not Justice, 

Then Mercy, her handmaiden. 

Judas. When hast thou 

At any time, to any man or woman, 
Or even to any little child, shown mercy ? 
Jason. I have but done what King 
Antiochus 
Commanded me. 

Judas. True, thou hast been 

the weapon 
With which he struck ; but hast been 

such a weapon. 
So flexible, so fitted to his hand, 
It tempted him to strike. So thou hast 

urged him 
To double wickedness, thine own and 

his. 
Where is this King ? Is he in Antioch 
Among his women still, and from his 

windows 
Throwing down gold by handfuls, for 

the rabble 
To scramble for ? 

Jason. Nay, he is gone from there. 
Gone with an army into the far East. 
Judas. And wherefore gone ? 
Jason. I know not. For the space 
Of forty days almost were horsemen 

seen 
Running in air, in cloth of gold, and 

armed 
With lances, like a band of soldiery ; 
It was a sign of triumph. 

Judas. Or of death. 

Wherefore art thou not with him ? 

Jason. I was left 

For service in the Temple. 



Judas. To pollute it. 

And to corrupt the Jews ; for there are 

men 
Whose presence is corruption ; to be 

with them 
Degrades us and deforms the things we 

do. 
Jason. I never made a boast, as some 

men do. 
Of my superior virtue, nor denied 
The weakness of my nature, that hath 

made me 
Subservient to the will of other men. 
Judas. Upon this day, the five and- 

twentieth day 
Of the month Caslan, was the Temph- 

here 
Profaned by strangers, — by Antiochus 
And thee, his instrument. Upon this 

day 
Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who didst 

lend thyself 
Unto this profanation, canst not be 
A witness of these solemn services. 
There can be nothing clean where thou 

art present. 
The people put to death Callisthenes, 
Who burned the Temple gates ; and if 

they find thee 
Will surely slay thee. I will spare thv 

life 
To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt 

wander 
Among strange nations. Thou, that 

hast cast out 
So many from their native land, shalt 

perish 
In a strange land. Thou, that hast left 

so many 
Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for 

thee, 
Nor any solemn funerals at all. 
Nor sepulchre with thy fathers. — Get 

thee hence ! 

{Music. Procession of Priests and people, 
with citherns, harps, and cymbals. Ju- 
das Maccabeus puts himself at their 
head, and they go into the inner courts, ) 



Scene III. — Jason, alone. 

Jason. Through the Gate Beautiful I 

see them come 
With branches and green boughs anJ 

leaves of palm, 
And pass into the inner courts. Alas ' 



334 



JUDAS MACCABiEUS. 



I should be with them, should be oue of 

them, 
But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness. 
That Cometh unto all, I fell away 
From the old faith, and did not clutch 

the new, 
Only an outward semblance of belief ; 
For the new faith I cannot make mine 

own, 
Not being born to it. It hath no root 
Within me. I am neither Jew nor 

Greek, 
But stand between them both, a rene- 
gade 
To each in turn ; having no longer faith 
In gods or men. Then what mysterious 

charm, 
What fascination is it chains my feet, 
And keeps me gazing like a curious child 
Into the holy places, where the priests 
Have i-aised their altar ? — Striking 

stones together, 
They take fire out of them, and light 

the lamps 
In the great candlestick. They spread 

the veils, 
And set the loaves of showbread on the 

table. 
The incense burns ; the well-remembered 

odor 
Comes wafted unto me, and takes me 

back 
To other days. I see myself among them 
As I w'as then ; and the old superstition 
Creeps over me again ! — A childish 

fancy ! — 
And hark ! they sing with citherns and 

w'ith cymbals, 
And all the people fall upon their faces. 
Praying and w^orshipping ! — I will away 
Into the East, to meet Antiochus 
Upon his homeward journey, crowned 

with triumph. 
Alas ! to-day I would give everything 
To ,see a friend's face, or to hear a voice 
That had the slightest tone of comfort 

in it ! 



ACT V. 

The Mountains of Echatana. 

Scene I. — Antiochus ; Philip ; Attend- 



Ant. Here let us rest awdiile. 
are we, Philip ? 
What place is this ? 



Where 



Philip. Ecbatana, my Lord ; 

And yonder mountain range is the 
Orontes. 
Ant. The Orontes is my river at An- 
tioch. 
Why did 1 leave it ? Why have I been 

tempted 
By coverings of gold and shields and 

breastplates 
To plunder Elymais, and be driven 
From out its gates, as by a fiery blast 
Out of a furnace ? 

Philip. These are fortune's changes. 
Ant. What a defeat it was ! The 
Persian horsemen 
Came like a mighty wind, the wind 

Khamaseen, 
And melted us away, and scattered us 
As if w^e were dead leaves, or desert 
sand. 
Philip. Be comforted, my Lord ; for 
thou hast lost 
But what thou hadst not. 

Ant. I, who made the Jews 

Skip like the grasshoppers, am made my- 
self 
To skip among these stones. 

Philip. Be not discouraged. 

Thy realm of Syria remains to thee ; 
That is not lost nor marred. 

Ant. 0, where are now 

The splendors of my court, my baths and 

banquets ? 
Where are my players and my dancing 

women ? 
Where are my sweet musicians with their 

pipes. 
That made me merry in the olden time ? 
I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. 
The very camels, with their ugly faces, 
Mock me and laugh at me. 

Philip. Alas ! my Lord, 

It is not so. If thou woiddst sleep 

awhile. 
All would be well. 

Ant. Sleep from mine eyes is gone, 
And my heart faileth me for very care. 
Dost thou remember, Philip, the old 

fable 
Told us when we were boys, in which the 

bear 
Going for honey overturns the hive, 
And is stung blind by bees ? I am that 

beast, 
Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais. 
Philip. When thou art come again to 
Antioch 



JUDAS MACCABEUS, 



335 



These thoughts will be as covered and 

forgotten 
As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot- 
wheels 
In the Egyptian sands. 

Ant. Ah ! when I come 

Again to Antioch ! When will that be ? 
Alas ! alas ! 



Scene II. 



Antiochus ; Philip ; A Mes- 
senger. 



Messenger. May the King live forever ! 
Ant. Who art thou, and whence com- 

est thou ? 
Messenger. My Lord, 

I am a messenger from Antioch, 
Sent here by Lysias, 

Ant. A strange foreboding 

Of something evil overshadows me. 
I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures ; 
I know not Hebrew ; but my High- 

Priest Jason, 
As I remember, told me of a Propnet 
Who saw a little cloud rise from the 

sea 
Like a man's hand, and soon the heaven 

was black 
With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, 

read ; I cannot ; 
I see that cloud. It makes the letters 

dim 
Before mine eyes. 
Philip (reading). "To King Antio- 
chus, 
The God, Epiphanes." 

Ant. mockery ! 

Even Lysias laughs at me ! — Go on, go 

on ! 
Philip (reading), ** We p7"ay thee 

hasten thy return. The lealm 
Is falling from thee. Since thou hast 

gone from us 
The victories of Judas Maccabaeus 
Form all our annals. First he overthrew 
Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, 
And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. 
And then Emmaus fell ; and then Beth- 
sura ; 
Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, 
And Maccabseus marched to Carnion." 
Ant. Enough, enough ! Go call my 

chariot-men ; 
We will drive forward, forsvard, without 

ceasing, 
Until we come to Antioch. My captains, 



My Lysias, Gorgias^ Seron, and Nica- 

nor, 
Are babes in battle, and this dreadful 

Jew 
Will rob me of my kingdom and my 

crown. 
My elephants shall trample him to dust • 
I will wipe out his nation, and will 

make 
Jerusalem a common burying- place, 
And every home within its walls a 

tomb ! 

( Throws up his Jiands, and sinks into the 
arms of attendants, toho lay him upon 
a bank.) 

Philip. Antiochus ! Antiochus ! Alas, 

The King is ill ! What is it, my Lord ? 

Ant. Nothing. A sudden and sharp 

spasm of pain. 

As if the lightning struck me, or the 

knife 
Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 
'Tis passed, even as it came. Let us 
set forward. 
Philip. See that the chariots be in 
readiness ; 
We will d-part forthwith. 

Ant. A moment more. 

I cannot stand. I am become at once 
Weak as an infant. Ye will have to 

lead me. 
Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name 
Thou wouldst be named, — it is dike to 

me, — 
If I knew how to pray, I would entreat 
To live a little longer. 

Philip. my Lord, 

Thou shalt not die ; we will not let thee 
die ! 
Ant. How canst thou help it, Philip ? 
the pain ! 
Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield 

against 
This unseen weapon. God of Israel, 
Since all the other gods abandon me. 
Help me. I will release the Holy City, 
Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy 

Temple. 
Thy people, whom I judged to be un- 
worthy 
To be so much as buried, shall be equal 
Unto the citizens of Antioch. 
I will become a Jew, and will declare 
Through all the world that is inhabited 
The power of God ! 

Philip. He faints. It is like death. 



336 



A HANDFUL 01" TRANSLATIONS. 



Bring here the royal litter. We will 
bear hiui 

Into the camp, while yet he lives. 
Ant. Philip, 

Into what tribulation am I come ! 

Alas ! I now remember all the evil 

That I have done the Jews ; and for this 
cause 

These troubles are upon me, and behold 

I perish through great grief in a strange 
land. 
Philip. Antiochus ! my King ! 
Ant. Nay, King no longer. 

Take thou my royal robes, my signet- 
ring, 

My crown and sceptre, and deliver them 



Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator ; 

And unto the good Jews, my citizens, 

In all my towns, say that their dying 
monarch 

Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and 
health. 

I who, puffed up with pride and arro- 
gance, 

Thought all the kingdoms of the earth 
mine own. 

If I would but outstretch my hand and 
take them. 

Meet face to face a greater potentate. 

King Death — Epiphanes — the Illus* 
trious ! 

[Dies. 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 



THE FUGITIVE. 

Tartar Song from the Prose Version of 
Chodzko. 



" He is gone to the desert land ! 
I can see the shining mane 
Of his horse on the distant plain, 
As he rides with his Kossak band ! 

" Come back, rebellious one ! 
Let thy proud heart relent ; 
Come back to my tall, white tent, 
Come back, my only son ! 

** Thy hand in freedom shall 
Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks. 
On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 
On the lakes of Karajal. 

' ' I will give thee leave to stray 
And pasture thy hunting steeds 
In the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 

** I will give thee my coat of mail, 
Of softest leather made, 
With choicest steel inlaid ; 
Will not all this prevail ? " 

II. 

" This hand no longer shall 

Cast my hawks, when morning breaks. 



On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 
On the lakes of Karajal. 

' ' I will no longer stray 
And pasture my hunting steeds 
In the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 

" Though thou give me thy coat of mail, 
Of softest leather made. 
With choicest steel inlaid, 
All this cannot prevail. 

" What right hast thou, Khan, 
To me, who am mine own, 
Who am slave to God alone, 
And not to any man ? 

' ' God will appoint the day 

When I again shall be 

By the blue, shallow sea. 

Where tne steel-bright sturgeons play. 

" God, who doth care for me, 
In the barren wilderness. 
On unknown hills, no less 
Will my companion be. 

"When I wander lonely and lost 
In the wind ; when I watch at night 
Like a hungry wolf, and am white 
And covered with hoar-frost ; 

" Yea, wheresoever I be, 
In the yellow desert sands, 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK. 



337 



In mountains or unknown lands, 
Allah will care for me ! " 



Then Sobra, the old, old man, — 
Three hundred and sixty years 
Had he lived in this land of tears, 
Bowed down and said, " Khan ! 

'* If you bid me, I will speak. 
There 's no sap in dry grass, 
No marrow in dry bones ! Alas, 
The mind of old men is weak ! 

' * I am old, I am very old : 
I have seen the primeval man, 
[ have seen the great Gengis Khan, 
Arrayed in his robes of gold. 

" What I say to you is the truth ; 
And I say to you, Khan, 
Pursue not the star-white man, 
Pursue not the beautiful youth. 

*• Him the Almighty made. 
And brought him forth of the light, 
At the verge and end of the night. 
When men on the mountain prayed. 

" He was bovn at the break of day, 
When abroad the angels walk ; 
He hath listened to their talk. 
And he knoweth what they say. 

" Gifted with Allah's grace, 

Like the moon of Ramazan 

When it shines in the skies, Khan, 

Is the light of his beautiful face. 

** When first on earth he trod, 
The first words that he said 
Were these, as he stood and prayed. 
There is no God but God ! 

** And he shall be king of men. 
For Allah hath heard his prayer. 
And the Archangel in the air, 
Gabriel, hath said, Amen ! " 



THE SIEGE OF KAZAN. 

Tartar Song, from the Prose Version of 
Chodzko. 



Black are the moors before Kazan, 
And their stagnant waters smell 
blood : 

22 



of 



I said in my heart, with horse and man, 
I will swim across this shallow flood. 

Under the feet of Arganiack, 

Like new moons were the shoes he 
bare. 
Silken trappings hung on his back. 

In a talisman on his neck, a prayer. 

My warriors, thought L are following 
me ; 

But when I looked behind, alas ! 
Not one of all the band could I see, 

All had sunk in the black morass ! 

Where are our shallow fords ? and where 

The power of Kazan with its fourfold 

gates ? 

From the prison windows our maidens 

fair 

Talk of us still through the iron grates. 

We cannot hear them ; for horse and man 
Lie buried deep in the dark abyss ! 

Ah ! the black day hath come down on 
Kazan ! 
Ah ! was ever a grief like this ? 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK. 

Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose 
Version of Alishan. 

Down from yon distant mountain 
height 
The brooklet flows through the village 
street ; 
A boy comes forth to wash his hands, 
Washing, yes washing, there he stands, 
In the water cool and sweet. 

Brook, from what mountain dost thou 
come, 
my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I come from yon mountain high and 

cold, 
Where lieth the new snow on the old, 
And melts in the summer heat. 

Brook, to what river dost thou go ? 

ray brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the river there below 
Where in bunches the violets grow, 

And sun and shadow meet. 

Brook, to what garden dost thou go ? 
mj brooklet cool an(' -weet ! 



338 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 



I go to the garden in the vale 
Where all night long the nightingale 
Her love-song doth repeat. 

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go ? 

my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the fountain at whose brink 
The maid that loves thee comes to 

drink, 
And whenever she looks therein, 
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, 

And my joy is then complete. 



TO THE STORK. 

Arrmnian Popular Song, from the 
Version of Alislmn. 



Welcome, Stork ! that dost wing 
Thy flight from the far-away 1 

Thou hast brought us the signs of 
Spring, 
Thou hast made our sad hearts gay. 

Descend, Stork ! descend 

Upon our roof to rest ; 
In our ash-tree, my friend, 

My darling, make tliy nest. 

To thee, Stork, I complain, 

Stork, to thee I impart j 

The thousand sorrows, the pain 

And aching of my heart. 

When thou away didst go, 

Away from this tree of ours, 
The withering winds did blow, 

And dried up all the flowers. 

Dark grew the brilliant sky, 

Cloudy and dark and drear ; 
They were breaking the snow on high. 

And winter was drawing near. 

From Varaca's rocky wall. 
From the rock of Varaca unrolled. 

The snow came and covered all. 
And the green meadow was cold. 

Stork, our garden with snow 

Was hidden away and lost, 
^nd the rose-trees that in it grow 

Were withered by snow and frost. 



CONSOLATION. 

To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of AiA 
in Provence, on the Death of hih 
Batigkter. 

FROM MALHERBE. 

Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be 
eternal ? 
And shall the sad discourse 
Whispered within thy heart, by tender 
ness paternal. 
Only augment its force ? 

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the 
tomb descending 
By death's frequented ways. 
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never 
ending. 
Where thy lost reason strays ? 

I know the charms that made her youth 
a benediction : 
Nor should I be content. 
As a censorious friend, to solace thine 
affliction 
By her disparagement. 

But she was of the world, which fairest 
things exposes 
To fates the most forlorn ; 
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live 
the roses. 
The space of one brief morn. 

***** 

Death has his rigorous laM's, unparal- 
leled, unfeeling; 
All prayers to him are vain ; 
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our 
appealing, 
He leaves us to complain. 

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch 
for cover, 
Unto these laws must bend ; 
The sentinel that guards the barriers of 
the Louvre 
Cannot our kings defend. 

To murmur against death, in petulant 
defiance. 
Is never for the best ; 
To will what God doth will, that is tbi 
only science 
That gives us an,y rest. 



TO ITALY. 



339 



TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU. 

FROM MALHERBE. 

Thou mighty Prince of Church and 

State, 
Richelieu ! until the hour of death, 
Whatever road man chooses, Fate 
Still holds him subject to her breath. 
Spun of all silks, our days and nights 
Have sorrows woven with delights ; 
A.nd of this intermingled shade 
Our various destiny appears, 
Even as one sees the course of years 
Of summers and of winters made. 

Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours 
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave ; 
Sometimes impending peril lowers 
Beyond the seaman's skill to save. 
The Wisdom, infinitely wise, 
That gives to human destinies 
Their foreordained necessity. 
Has made no law more fixed below, 
Than the alternate ebb and flow 
Of Fortune and Adversity. 



THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 

FROM JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF 
NISMES. 

An angel with a radiant face, 
Above a cradle bent to look. 

Seemed his own image there to trace, 
As in the waters of a brook. 

" Dear child ! who me resemblest so," 
It whispered, ' ' come, come with 
me ! 

Happy together let us go, 

The earth unworthy is of thee ! 

** Here none to perfect bliss attain ; 

The soul in pleasure suffering lies ; 
joy hath an undertone of pain, 
' And even the happiest hours their 
sighs. 

" Fear doth at every portal knock ; 

Never a day serene and pure 
From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock 

Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. 

" What, then, shall sorrows and shall 
fears 
Come to disturb so pure a brow ? 



And with the bitterness of tears 
These eyes of azure troubled grow ? 

' ' Ah no ! into the fields of space, 
Away shalt thou escape with me ; 

And Providence will grant thee grace 
Of all the days that were to be. 

" Let no one in thy dwellii>g cowen, 
In sombre vestments draped and 
veiled ; 

But let them welcome thy last hour, 
As thy first moments once they hailed. 

" Without a cloud be there each 
brow ; 

There let the grave no shadow cast ; 
When one is pure as thou art now, 

The fairest day is still the last." 

And waving wide his wings of white. 
The angel, at these words, had 
sped 

Towards the eternal realms of light ! — 
Poor mother ! see, thy son is dead ! 



TO ITALY. 

FROM FILICAJA. 

Italy ! Italy ! thou who 'rt doomed to 
wear 

The fatal gift of beauty, and possess 

The dower funest of infinite wretched- 
ness 

Written upon thy forehead by despair ; 
Ah ! would that thou wert stronger, or 
less fair. 

That they might fear thee more, or love 
thee less. 

Who in the splendor of thy loveli- 
ness 

Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat 
dare ! 
Then from the Alps I should not see de- 
scending 

Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic 
horde 

Drinking the wave of Po, distained 
with gore, 
Nor should I see thee girded with a 
sword 

Not thine, and with the stranger's arm 
contending, 

Victor or vanquished, slave forever* 
more. 



340 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 



WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS. 

FROM GOETHE. 



Thou that from the heavens art, 
Every pain and sorrow stillest, 
And the doubly wretched heart 
Doubly with refreshment hllest, 
I am weary with contending ! 
Why this rapture and unrest ? 
Peace descending 
Come, ah, come into my breast ! 

II. 

O'er all the hill-tops 

Is quiet now, 

In all the tree-tops 

Hearest thou 

Hardly a breath ; 

The birds are asleep in the trees ; 

Wait ; soon like these 

Thou too shalt rest. 



REMORSE. 

FEOM AUGUST VON PLATEN. 

How I started up in the night, in the 
night, 
Drawn on without rest or reprieval ! 
The streets, Avith their watchmen, were 
lost to my sight, 
As I wandered so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Through the gate with the arch mediiB- 
val. 

The mill-brook rushed from the rocky 
height, 
I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearn- 
ing ; 



Deep under me watched I the waves in 

their flight. 
As they glided so light 
In the night, in the night. 
Yet backward not one was returning. 

O'erhead were revolving, so counties!-; 
and bright. 
The stars in melodious existence ; 
And with them the moon, more serenely 
bedight ; — 
They sparkled so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Through the magical, measureless dis- 
tance. 



And upward I gazed in the night, in the 
night. 
And again on the waves in their fleet- 
ing ; 
Ah woe ! thou hast wasted thy days in 
delight, 
Now silence thou light, 
In the night, in the night, 
The remorse in thy heart that is beating. 



SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MAHK. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF SANTA TERESA. 

Let nothing disturb thee, 
Nothing affright thee ; 
All things are passing ; 
God never changeth ; 
Patient endurance 
Attaineth to all things ; 
Who God possesseth 
In nothing is wanting ; 
Alone God suflBceth. 



Add to Interlude, p. 295, after the line, ** Not what men saw, but what they feared.' 



Besides, unless my memory fail. 
Your some one with an iron flail 
Ls not an ancient myth at all, 
But conies much later on the scene 
As Talus in the Faerie Queene, 



The iron groom of Artegall, 
Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, 
And truth upheld, and righted wrong, 
As was, as is the swallow, fleet, 
And as the lion is, was strong." 



THE MASQUE OF PAI^DORA. 



341 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



THE WORKSHOP OF HEPH^STUS. 

HEPH^STDS, standing before the statue of 
Pandora. 

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's 

throne, 
Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts 
Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works 
Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or 

Olympus, 
But moulded in soft clay, that unresist- 
ing 
Yields itself to the touch, this lovely 

form 
Before me stands, perfect in every part. 
Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair, 
When first upwafted by caressing winds 
She came to high Olympus, and the gods 
Paid homage to her beauty. Thxis her 

hair 
Was cinctured ; thus her floating dra- 
pery 
Was like a cloud about her, and her face 
Was radiant with the sunshine and the 



THE VOICE OF ZEUS. 

Is thy work done, Hephaestus ? 



HEPH^STUS. 



It is finished ! 



THE VOICE. 



Not finished till I breathe the breath of 

life 
Into her nostrils, and she moves and 



HEPH^STDS. 

Will she become immortal like ourselves ? 

THE VOICE. 

The form that thou hast fashioned out 

of clay 
Is of the earth and mortal ; but the spirit. 



The life, the exhalation of my breath, 
Is of diviner essence and immortal. 
The gods shall shower on her their ben- 
efactions, 
She shall possess all gifts : the gift of 

song. 
The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, 
The fascination and the nameless charm 
That shall lead all men captive. 

HEPH^STUS. 

Wherefore ? wherefore ? 

A wind shakes the house. 

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind 
Through all the halls and chambers of 

my house ! 
Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom 
Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed 
Beside a river in the rippling current 
Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her 

head. 
She gazes round about as if amazed ; 
She is alive ; she breathes, but yet she 

speaks not ! 

Pandora descends from the pedestal. 



CHORUS OF THE GRACES. 

aglaia. 

In the workshop of Hephaestus 

What is this I see ? 
Have the Gods to four increased us 

Who were only three ? 
Beautiful in form and feature. 

Lovely as the day, 
Can there be so fair a creature 

Formed of common clay ? 

THALIA. 

sweet, pale face ! lovely eyes of 
azure. 
Clear as the waters of a brook that run 
Limpid and laughing in the summer 
£.un ! 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



,1 that like a miser's treas- 

-iidance overflows the measure ! 
u,ceful form, that cloudlike floatest 
on 

With the soft, undulating gait of one 

Who moveth as if motion were a pleas- 
ure ! 
By what name shall I call thee ? ISTymph 
or Muse, 

Callirrhoe or Urania ? Some sweet 
name 

Whose every syllable is a caress 
Would best befit thee ; but I cannot 
choose, 

Nor do I care to choose ; for still the 
same. 

Nameless or named, will be thy love- 
liness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered with all celestial gifts, 

Skilled in every art 
That ennobles and uplifts 

And delights the heart, 
Fair on earth shall be thy fame 

As thy face is fair, 
And Pandora be the name 

Thou henceforth shalt bear. 



II. 
OLYMPUS. 

HERMES, putting on Ms sandals. 

Much must he toil who serves the Im- 
mortal Gods, 
And I, who am their herald, most of all. 
No rest have I, nor respite. 1 no sooner 
Unclasp the winged sandals from my 

feet, 
Than I again must clasp them, and de- 
part 
Upon some foolish errand. But to-day 
The erraud is not foolish. Never yet 
With greater joy did I obey the summons 
That sends me earthward. I will fly so 

■ swiftly 
That my caduceus in the whistling air 
Shall make a sound like the Pandaean 

pipes, 
Cheating the shepherds ; for to-day I go. 
Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, 

to lead 
A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower, 



And by my cunning arguments persuade 

him 
To marry lier. What mischief lies con- 

cealed 
In this design I know not ; but I know 
Who thinks of marrying hath already 

taken 
One step upon the road to penitence. 
Such embassies delight me. Forth I 

launch 
On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall 
Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him 
Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. 
I sink, I fly ! The yielding element 
Folds itself round about me like an arm, 
And holds me as a mother holds her 

child. 



IIL 

TOWEE, OF PROMETHEUS ON 
MOUNT CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I HEAR the trumpet of Alectryon 
Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to 

fade, 
And all the heavens are full of prophecies 
And evil auguries. Blood-red last night 
I saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent 

moon 
Sank through the mist, as if it were the 

scythe 
His parricidal hand had flung far down 
The western steeps. ye Immortal 

Gods, 
What evil are ye plotting and contriving < 

Hermes and Pandora at the threshold. 



I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen 
And icy hand repels me. These blank 

walls 
Oppress me with their weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful ye are, 
But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight 
Against Necessity. The Fates control 

As they do us, and so far we are equals .' 

PANDORA. 

Motionless, passionless, companionless, 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



343 



He sits there muttering in his beard. 

His voice 
Is like a river flowing underground ! 

HERMES. 

Prometheus, hail ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who calls me ? 



HERMES. 

Uost thou not know me ? 



It is I. 



PROMETHEUS. 

, By thy winged cap 

And winged heels I know thee. Thou 

art Hermes, 
Captain of thieves! Hast thou again 

been stealing 
The heifers of Admetus in the sweet 
Meadows of asphodel ? or Hera's girdle / 
Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon ? 

HERMES. 

And thou, Prometheus ; say, hast thou 

again 

stealii _ 

wheels 
To light thy furnaces ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why comest thou hither 
So early in the dawn ? 

HERMES. 

The Immortal Gods 
Know naught of late or early. Zens 

himself 
The omnipotent hath sent me. 

PROMETHEUS. 

For what purpose ? 

^ HERMES. 

■To bring this maiden to thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I mistrast 
The Gods and all their gifts. If they 

have sent her 
It is for no good purpose. 

HERMES. 

What disaster 
Could she bring on thy house, who is a 
woman ? 



PROMETHEUS. 

The Gods are not my friends, nor am I 

theirs. 
AVhatever comes from them, though in 

a shape 
As beautiful as this, is evil only. 
Who art thou ? 

PANDORA. 

One who, though to thee unknown, 
Yet knoweth thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How shouldst thou know me, woman ? 

PANDORA. 

Who knoweth not Prometheu.s the hu- 
mane ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus the unfortunate ; to whom 
Both Gods and men have shown them- 
selves ungrateful. 
When every spark was quenched on every 

hearth 
Throughout the earth, I brought to man 

the fire 
And all its ministrations. My reward 
Hath been the rock and vulture. 



HERMES. 



At last relent and pardc 



But the Gods 



PROMETHEUS. 

They relent not ; 
They pardon not ; they are implacable. 
Revengeful, unforgiving ! 

HERMES. 

As a pledge 
Of reconciliation they have sent to thee 
This divine being, to be thy companion, 
And bring into thy melancholy house 
The sunshine and the fragrance of her 
youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I need them not. I have within myself 
All that my heart desires ; the ideal 

beauty 
Which the creative faculty of mind 
Fashions and follows in a thousand 

shapes 
More lovely than the real. My owu 

thoughts 



344 



THE MASQUE OF PANDOKA. 



Are my companions ; my designs and 

labors 
And aspirations are my only friends. 

HERMES. 

Decide not rashly. The decision made 
Can never be recalled. The Gods im- 
plore not, 
Plead not, solicit not ; they only offer 
Choice and occasion, which once being 

passed 
Return no more. Dost thou accept the 
gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape 
It comes to me, with whatsoever charm 
To fascinate my sense, will 1 receive. 
Leave me. 

PANDORA. 

Let us go hence. I will not stay. 



We leave thee to thv vacant dreams, and 

all 
The silence and the solitude of thought, 
The endless bitterness of unbelief. 
The loneliness of existence without love. 



CHORUS OF THE FATES. 
CLOTHO. 

How the Titan, the defiant. 
The self-centred, self-reliant, 
"Wrapped in visions and illusions, 
Robs himself of life's best gifts ! 
Till by all the storm-winds shaken. 
By the blast of fate o'ertaken, 
Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken. 
In the mists of his confusions 
To the reefs of doom he drifts ! 

LACHESIS. 

Sorely tried and sorely tempted, 
From no agonies exempted, 
In the penance of his trial, 
And the discipline of pain ; 
Often by illusions cheated, 
Often baffled and defeated 
In the tasks to be completed, 
He, by toil and self-denial. 
To the highest shall attain. 

ATROPOS. 

Tempt no more the noble schemer ; 
Bear unto some idle dreamer 



This new toy and fascination, 
This new dalliance and delight ! 
To the garden where reposes 
Epimetheus crowned with roses. 
To the door that never closes 
Upon pleasure and temptation, 
Bring this vision of the night ! 



IV. 

THE AIR. 
HERMES, returning to Olympus. 

As lonely as the tower that l\,e inhabits. 
As firm and cold as are the crags about 

him, 
Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts 

of Zeus 
Alone can move him ; but the tender 

heart 
Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat, 
Hammers and flames like all his broth- 
er's forges ! 
Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, 
My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar 
Into the air, returning to Olympus. 

joy of motion ! delight to cleave 
The infinite realms of space, the liquid 

ether, 
Through the warm sunshine and the 

cooling cloud. 
Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud ! 
With one touch of my swift and winged 

feet, 

1 spurn the solid earth, and leave it 

rocking 
As rocks the bough from which a bird 
takes wing. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful apparition ! go not hence ! 
Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice 
Is a celestial melody, and thy form 
Self-poised as if it floated on the air ! 

PANDORA. 

No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, 
But a mere woman fashioned out of clay 
And mortal as the rest. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



345 



EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy face is fair ; 

There is a wonder in thine azure eyes 

That fascinates me. Thy whole pres- 
ence seems 

A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. 

Say, would thy star like Merope's grow 
dim 

1 f thou shouldst wed beneath thee ? 

PANDORA. 

Ask me not ; 
1 cannot answer thee. I only know 
The Gods have sent me hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I believe, 

And thus believing am most fortunate. 

It was not Hermes led thee here, but 
Eros, 

And swifter than his arrows were thine 
eyes 

In wounding me. ■ There was no mo- 
ment's space 

Between my seeing thee and loving thee. 

0, what a telltale face thou hast ! Again 

I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They do but answer to the love in thine. 
Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst 

love me. 
Thou knowest me not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps I know thee better 
Than had I known thee longer. Yet it 

seems 
That I have always known thee, and 

but now 
Have found thee. Ah, I have been 

waiting long. 



PANDORA. 

How beautiful is this house ! The at- 
mosphere 

Breathes rest and comfort, and the many 
chambers 

Seem full of welcomes. 



They not only seem, 
But truly are. This dwelling and its 

master 
Belong to thee. 



PANDORA. 

Here let me stay forever ! 
There is a spell upon me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou thyself 
Art the enchantress, and I feel thy 

power 
Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense 
In an Elysian dream. 

PANDORA. 

0, let me stay. 

How beautiful are all things round about 
me. 

Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls ! 

What treasures hast thou here ! Yon 
oaken chest, 

Carven with figures and embossed with 
gold, 

Is wonderful to look upon ! What choice 

And precious things dost thou keep hid- 
den in it ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I know not. 'T is a niysteiy. 



PANDORA. 



Lifted the lid? 



Hast thou nevei 



EPIMETHEUS. 

The oracle forbids. 
Safely concealed there from all mortal 

eyes 
Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. 
Seek not to know what they have hidden 

from thee, 
Till they themselves reveal it. 



As thou wilt. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Let us go forth from this mysterious 

place. 
The garden walks are pleasant at this 

hour ; 
The nightingales among the sheltering 

boughs 
Of populous and many-nested trees 
Shall teach me how to woo thee, and 

shall tell me 
By what resistless charms or incantations 
They won their mates. 



34G 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



PANDORA. 

Thou dost not need a teacher. 
They go out. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

What the Immortals 
Confide to thy keeping, 
Tell unto no man ; 
Waking or sleeping, 
Closed be thy portals 
To friend as to foemau. 

Silence conceals it ; 
The word that is spoken 
Betrays and reveals it ; 
By breath or by token 
The charm may be broken. 

With shafts of their splendors 
The Gods unforgiving 
Pursue the offenders, 
The dead and the living ! 
Fortune forsakes them, 
Nor earth shall abide them, 
Nor Tartarus hide them ; 
Swift wrath overtakes them ! 

With useless endeavor. 

Forever, forever, 

Is Sisyphus rolling 

His stone up the mountain ! 

Immersed in the fountain, 

Tantalus tastes not 

The water that wastes not ! 

Through ages increasing 

The pangs that afflict him. 

With motion unceasing 

The wheel of Ixion 

Shall torture its victim ! 



VI. 

IN THE GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime 

in ether 
Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a 

swan 
Flies to fair-ankled Leda ! 

PANDORA. 

Or perchance 
Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, 
That bore the Centaurs. 



EPIMETHEUS. 

The divine and humai 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Gently swaying to and fro, 
Rocked by all the winds that blow, 
Bright with sunshine from above 
Dark with shadow from below, 
Beak to beak and breast to breast 
In the cradle of their nest, 
Lie the fledglings of our love. 

ECHO. 

Love ! love ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark ! listen ! Hear how sweetly over- 
head 

The feathered flute-players pipe their 
songs of love. 

And echo answers, love and only love. 

CHORUS OF BIRDS, 

Every flutter of the wing, 
Every note of song we sing, 
Every murmur, every tone. 
Is of love and love alone. 

ECHO. 

Love alone ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who would not love, if loving she might 

be 
Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven ? 

PANDORA. 

Ah, who would love, if loving she might 

be 
Like Semele consumed and burnt to 

ashes ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence knowest thou these stories ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes taught me ; 
He told me all the history of the Gods, 

CHORUS OF REEDS. 

Evermore a sound shall be 
In the reeds of Arcady, 
Evermore a low lament 
Of unrest and discontent, 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



347 



As the story is retold 
Of the nymph so coy and cold, 
Who with frightened feet outran 
The pursuing steps of Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is 
made, 

And when he plays upon it to the shep- 
herds 

They pity him, so mournful is the sound. 

Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was, 

PANDORA. 

Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless. 



Ho 



PROMETHEUS, wUhout. 

Epimetheus ! 



EPIMETHEUS. 

'T.is my brother's voice ; 
A sound unwelcome and inopportune 
As was the braying of Silenus' ass, 
Once heard in Cybele's garden. 

PANDORA. 

Let me go. 
I would not be found here. I would 
not see him. 

She escapes among the trees. 



CHORUS OF DRYADES. 

Haste and hide thee, 

Ere too late, 

In these thickets intricate ; 

Lest Prometheus 

See and chide thee. 

Lest some hurt 

Or harm betide thee, 

Haste and hide thee ! 

PROMETHEUS, entering. 
n'ho was it fled from here ? I saw a 

shape 
Flitting among the trees. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

It was Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Epimetheus ! Is it then in vain 



That I have warned thee ? I^et me now 

implore. 
Thou harborest iu thy house a dangerous 

guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods love they honor with 
such guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods would destroy they firs' 
make mad. 



EPIMETHEUS, 

Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject all gifts that come from higher 
powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make not thyself the slave of any woman. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make not thyself the judge of any man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I judge thee not ; for thou art more than 

man ; 
Thou art descended from Titanic race, 
And hast a Titan's strength, and faculties 
That make thee godlike ; and thou sittest 

here 
Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, 
And beaten with her sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS, 

my brother ! 
Thou drivest me to madness with thy 
taunts. 

PROMETHEUS, 

And me thou drivest to madness with thy 
follies. 

Come M'ith me to my tower on Caucasus : 

See there my forges in the roaring cav- 
erns, 

Beneficent to man, and taste the joy 

That s})rings from labor. Read with mo 
the stars, 

And learn tlie virtues that lie hidden in 
plants, 

4nd all things that are useful. 



348 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



KPIMETHEUS. 

my brother ! 
I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit 
Our father's strength, and I our mother's 

weakness : 
The softness of the Oceanides, 
The yielding nature that cannot resist, 

PROMETHEUS. 

P)ecause thou wilt not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay; because I cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert thyself ; rise up to thy full height ; 

Shake from thy soul these dreams effemi- 
nate, 

These passions bom of indolence and 
ease. 

Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe 
the air 

Of mountains, and their unapproachable 
summits 

Will lift thee to the level of themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The roar of forests and of waterfalls. 
The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud 
And undistinguishable voices calling. 
Are in my ear ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

0, listen and obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou leadest me as a child. I follow 
thee. 

They go out. 



CHORUS OF OREADES. 

Centuries old are the mountains ; 
Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted 
Helios crowns by day, 
Pallid Selene by night ; 
From their bosoms uptossed 
The snows are driven and drifted, 
Like Tithonus' beard 
Streaming dishevelled and white. 

Thunder and tempest of wind 
Their trumpets blow in the vastness 
Phantoms of mist and rain, 
Cloud and the shadow of cloud, 



Pass and repass by the gates 
Of their inaccessible fastness 
Ever unmoved they stand, 
Solemn, eternal, and proud. 



VOICES OF THE WATERS 

Flooded by rain and snow 
In their inexhaustible sources, 
Swollen by affluent streams 
Hurrying onward and hurled 
Headlong over the crags. 
The impetuous water-courses. 
Rush and roar and plunge 
Down to the nethermost world. 

Say, have the solid rocks 
Into streams of silver been melted, 
Flowing over the plains. 
Spreading to lakes in the fields ? 
Or have the mountains, the giants, 
The ice-helmed, the forest-belted. 
Scattered their arms abroad ; 
Flung in the meadows their shields ? 



VOICES OF THE WINDS. 

High on their turreted cliffs 

That bolts of thunder have shattered, 

Storm-winds muster and blow 

Trumpets of terrible breath ; 

Then from the gateways rush. 

And before them routed and scattered 

Sullen the cloud-rack flies. 

Pale with the pallor of death. 

Onward the hurricane rides. 
And flee for shelter the shepherds ; 
White are the frightened leaves, 
Harvests with terror are white ; 
Panic seizes the herds. 
And even the lions and leopards, 
Prowling no longer for prey. 
Crouch in their caverns with fright. 



VOICES OF THE FOREST 

Guarding the mountains around 
Majestic the forests are standing. 
Bright are their crested helms. 
Dark is their armor of leaves ; 
Filled with the breath of freedom 
Each bosom subsiding, expanding, 
Now like the ocean sinks. 
Now like the ocean upheaves. 



I 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



349 



Planted firm on the rock, 
With foreheads stern and defiant, 
Loud they shout to the winds, 
Loud to the tempest they call ; 
Naught but Olympian thunders, 
That blasted Titan and Giant, 
Them can uproot and o'erthrovv, 
Shaking the earth with their fall. 



CHORUS OF OREADES. 

These are the Voices Three 

Of winds and forests and fountains. 

Voices of earth and of air, 

Murmur and rushing of streams, 

Making together one sound. 

The mysterious voice of the mountains, 

Waking the sluggard that sleeps, 

Waking the dreamer of dreams. 

These are the Voices Three, 
That speak of endless endeavor, 
Speak of endurance and strength. 
Triumph and fulness of fame. 
Sounding about the world, 
An inspiration forever, 
Stirring the hearts of men. 
Shaping their end and their aim. 



VIL 
THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

PANDORA. 

Left to myself I wander as I will, 
And as my fancy leads me, through this 

house. 
Nor could I ask a dwelling more com- 
plete 
Were I indeed the Goddess that he 

deems me. 
Xo mansion of Olympus, framed to be 
The habitation of the Immortal Gods, 
Can be more beautiful. And this is mine 
And more than this, the love wherewith 

he crowns me. 
As if impelled by powers invisible 
And irresistible, my steps return 
Unto this spacious hall. All corridors 
And passages lead hither, and all doors 
But open into it. Yon mysterious chest 
Attracts and fascinates me. Would I 

knew 
What there lies hidden ! But the oracle 



Foi-bids. Ah me ! The secret then is 
safe. 

So would it be if it were in my keeping. 

A crowd of shadowy faces from the mir- 
rors 

That line these walls are watching me. 
I dare not 

Lift up the lid. A hundred times th( 
act 

Would b& repeated, and the secret seen 

By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. 

She itHtlks to the other side of the hall. 

My feet are weary, wandering to and 

fro. 
My eyes with seeing and my heart with 

waiting. 
I will lie here and rest till he returns. 
Who is my dawn, my day, my Helios. 

Throws herself upon a couch, and falls 
asleep. 



ZEPHYRUS. 

Come from thy caverns dark and deep, 
son of Erebus and Night ; 
All sense of hearing and of sight 
Enfold in the serene delight 
And quietude of sleep ! 

Set all thy silent sentinels 
To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, 
And keep the evil dreams of fate 
And falsehood and infernal hate 
Imprisoned in their cells. 

But open wide the Gate of Horn, 
Whence, beautiful as planets, rise 
The dreams of truth, with starry eyes. 
And all the wondrous prophecies 
And visions of the morn. 



CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM TtflE IVORY 

GATE. 

Ye sentinels of sleep, 

It is in vain ye keep 
Your drowsy watch before the Ivory 
Gate; 

Though closed the portal seems, 

The airy feet of dreams 
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. 

We phantoms are and dreams 
Born by Tartarean streams, 
As ministers of the infernal powers ; 



350 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



son of Erebus 
And Night, behold ! we thus 
Elude your watchful warders on 
towers ! 



the 



From gloomy Tartarus 

The Fates have summoned us 
To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, 

A tale to fan the fire 

Of her insane desire 
To know a secret that the Gods would 
keep. 

This passion, in their ire, 
The Gods themselves inspire. 

To vex mankind with evils manifold, 
So that disease and pain 
O'er the whole earth may reign, 

And nevermore return the Age of Gold. 

PANDORA, waking. 
A voice said in my sleep : "Do not de- 
lay : 
Do not delay ; the golden moments fly ! 
The oracle hath forbidden ; yet not thee 
Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only ! " 
I am alone. These faces in the mirrors 
Are but the shadows and phantoms of 

myself ; 
They cannot help nor hinder. Ko one 

sees me. 
Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing 

good 
And knowing evil, have created me 
Such as 1 am, and filled me with desire 
Of knowing good and evil like them- 
selves. 
She approaches the chest. 

\ hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, 
Dr life or death, the moment shall de- 
cide. 

She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from 
the chesi, and flls the room. Pandora 
falls senseless on tlie floor. Storm with- 
out. 

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE 
OF HORN. 

Yes, the moment shall decide ! 
It already hath decided ; 
And the secret once confided 
To the keeping of the Titan 
Now is flying far and wide, 
Whispered, told on every side, 
To disquiet and to frighten. 



Fever of the heart and brain, 
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain. 
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, 
All the evils that hereafter 
Shall afflict and vex mankind, 
All into the air have risen 
From the chambers of their prison ; 
Only Hope remains behind. 



VIII. 
IN THE GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The storm is past, but it hath left be- 
hind it 
Ruin and desolation. All the walks 
Are strewn with shattered boughs ; the 

birds are silent ; 
The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, 

lie dead ; 
The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain , 
The melancholy reeds whisper together 
As if some dreadful deed had been com- 
mitted 
They dare not name, and all the air is 

heavy 
With an unspoken sorrow ! Premoni- 
tions, 
Foreshadowings of some terrible disaste)- 
Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the 
omen ! 

PANDORA, coming from the house. 
Epimetheus, I no longer dare 
To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy 

voice, 
Being no longer worthy of thy love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive me not, but kill me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

I pray for death, not pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 



I 4are not speak of it. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



351 



EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me ! 

PANDORA. 

I have brought wrath and ruin on thy 

house ! 
My heart hath braved the oracle that 

guarded 
The fatal secret from us, and my hand 
Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then all is lost ! I am indeed undone. 

PANDORA. 

I pray for punishment, and not for par- 
don. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine is the fault, not thine. On rae 

shall fall 
The vengeance of the Gods, for I betrayed 
Their secret when, in evil hour, I said 
It was a secret ; when, in evil hour, 
I left thee here alone to this temptation. 
Why did I leave thee ? 

PANDORA. 

Why didst thou return ? 
Eternal absence would have been to me 
The greatest punishment. To be left 

alone 
And face to face with my own crime, had 

been 
Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, 
Let all your vengeance fall ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

On thee and me. 
I do not love thee less for what is done, 
And cannot be undone. Thy very weak- 
ness 
Hath brought thee nearer to me, and 

henceforth 
My love will have a sense of pity in it, 
Making it less a worship than before. 

PANDORA. 

Pity me not ; pity is degradation. 
Love me and kill nib. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful Pandora ! 
Thou art a Goddess still ! 

PANDORA. 

I am a woman ; 
And the insurgent demon in my nature, 



That made me brave the oracle, revolts 
At pity and compassion. Let me die ; 
What else remains for me ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth, hope, and love : 
To build a new life on a ruined life, 
To make the future fairer than the past, 
And make the past appear a troubled 

dream. 
Even now in passing through the garden 

walks 
Upon the ground I saw a fallen nest 
Ruined and full of rain ; and over me 
Beheld the uncomplaining birds already 
Busy in building a new habitation. 

PANDORA. 

Auspicious omen ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May the Eumenides 
Put out their torches and behold us not, 
And fling away their whips of scorpions 
And touch us not. 



Me let them punish. 
Only through punishment of our evil 

deeds, 
Only through suffering, are we reconciled 
To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

Never shall souls like these 
Escape the Eumenides, 
The daughters dark of Acheron and 
Night ! 
Unquenched our torches glare. 
Our scourges in the air 
Send forth prophetic sounds before they 
smite. 

Never by lapse of time 

The soul defaced by crime 
Into its former self returns again ; 

For every guilty deed 

Holds in itself the seed 
Of retribution and undying pain. 

Never shall be the loss 

Restored, till Helios 
Hath purified them with his heavenly 
fires; 

Then whc*o was lost is won, 

And the new life begun. 
Kindled with nobler passions and desires. 



352 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



I. 

The lights are out, and gone are all the 

guests 
That thronging came with merriment 
and jests 
To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane 
In the new house, — into the night are 

gone; 
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, 
And I alone remain. 

fortunate, happy day. 
When a new household finds its place 
Among the myriad homes of earth, 
Like a new star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonious way 
Into the boundless realms of space ! 

So said the guests in speech and song, 
As in the chimney, burning bright, 
"We hung the iron crane to-night. 
And merry was the feast and long. 

II. 

And now I sit and muse on what may be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to see, 
Through floating vapors interfused 
with light. 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and 

fade. 
As shadows y)assing into deeper shade 
Sink and elude the sight. 

For two alone, there in the hall, 
is spread the table round and small ; 
Upon the polished silver shine 
The evening lamps, but, more divine, 
The light of love shines over all ; 
Of love, that says not mine and thine, 
But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 

They want no guests, to come between 
Their tender glances like a screen. 
And tell them tales of land and sea, 
And whatsoever may betide 
The great, forgotten world outside ; 
They want no guests ; they needs must 

be 
Each other's own best company. 



III. 

The picture fades ; as at a village fair 
A showman's views, dissolving into air, 
Again appear transfigured on the 
screen, 
So in my fancy this ; and now once more, 
In part transfigured, through the open 
door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 

Seated, I see the two again, 
But not alone ; they entertain 
A little angel unaware, 
"With face as round as is the moon ; 
A royal guest with flaxen hair. 
Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
Drums on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor. 
To grasp at things unseen before. 

Are these celestial manners ? these 
The ways that win, the arts that please? 
Ah yes ; consider well the guest. 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
He ruleth by the right divine 
Of helplessness, so lately born 
In purple chambers of the morn. 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not ; and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the Greek, 
The gravest wisdom of the wise. 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, monarch absolute. 
Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 



IV. 

As one who walking in a forest sees 
A lovely landscape through the parted 
trees, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



353 



Then sees it not, for boughs that in- 
tervene ; 
Or as we seethe moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again 
concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 

There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All covered and embowered in curls, 
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge. 
Soft-shining through the summer 

night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to be. 



Again the tossing boughs shut out the 

scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene. 
And the moon's pallid disk is hidden 
quite ; 
And now I see the table wider grown. 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 

I see the table wider grown, 

I see it garlanded with guests, 

As if fair Ariadne's Crown 

Out of the sky had fallen down ; 

]\Iaidens within whose tender breasts 

A thousand restless hopes and fears. 

Forth reaching to the coming years, 

Fhitter awliile, then quiet lie. 

Like timid birds that fain would fly, 

But do not dare to leave theiv nests ; — 

And youths, who in their strength elate 

Challenge the van and front of fate. 

Eager as champions to be 

In the divine knight-errantry 

Of youth, that travels sea and land 

^ 2a 



Seeking adventures, or pursues, 
Through cities, and through solitudes 
Frequented by the lyric Muse, 
The phantom with the beckoning hand, 
That still allures and still eludes. 
sweet illusions of the brain ! 
sudden thrills of fire and frost ! 
The world is bright while ye remain, 
And dark and dead when ye are lost I 



VI. 

The meadow-brook, that seemeth to 

stand still, 
Quickens its current as it nears the mill ; 
And so the stream of Time that lin- 
gereth 
In level places, and so dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of Death. 

And now, like the magician's scroll, 

That in the owner's keeping shrinks 

With every wish he speaks or thinks, 

Till the last wish consumes the whole, 

The table dwindles, and again 

I see the two alone remain. 

The crown of stai's is broken in parts ; 

Its jewels, brighter than the day, 

Have one by one been stolen away 

To shine in other homes and hearts. 

One is a wanderer now afar 

In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 

Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 

And one is in the boisterous camp 

Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, 

And battle's terrible array. 

I see the patient mother read, 

With aching heart, of wrecks that float 

Disabled on those seas remote, 

Or of some great heroic deed 

On battle-fields, where thousands bleed 

To lift one hero into fame. 

Anxious she bends her graceful head 

Above these chronicles of pain. 

And trembles with a secret dread 

Lest there among the drowned or slain 

She find the one beloved name. 



VII. 

After a day of cloud and wind and rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out 



354 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



And, touching all the darksome woods 
with light, 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh 

and sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 

What see I now ? The night is fair, 
The storm of grief, the clouds of care. 
The wind, the rain, have passed away ; 
The lamps are lit, the fires burn blight, 
The house is full of life and light : 
It is the Golden Wedding day. 
The guests come throngingin once more, 
Quick footsteps sound along the floor. 
The trooping children crowd the stair, 
And in and out and everywhere 
Flashes along the corridor 
The sunshine of their golden hair. 



On the round table in the hall 
Another Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 
More than one Monarch of the Moon 
Is drumming with his silver spoon ; 
The light of love shines over all. 

fortunate, happy day ! 
The people sing, the people say. 
The ancient bridegroom and the bride, 
Smiling contented and serene 
Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, 
Behold, well pleased, on every side 
Their forms and features multiplied, 
As the reflection of a light 
Between two burnished mirrors gleams, 
Or lamps upon a bridge at night 
Stretch on and on before the sight, 
Till the Ions: vista endless seems. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825 
IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 



Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, 
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. 

Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. 



** C^SAR, we who are about to die 
Salute you ! " was the gladiators' cry 
In the arena, standing face to face 
With death and with the Koman popu- 
lace. 

ye familiar scenes, — ye groves of 
pine. 

That once were mine and are no longer 
mine, — 

Thou river, widening through the mead- 
ows green 

To the vast sea, so near and yet un- 
seen, — 

Ye halls, in who.se seclusion and repose 

Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose 

And vanished, — we who are about to 
die ^ 

Salute you ; earth and air and sea and 
sky. 

And the Imperial Sun that scatters 
down 

His sovereign splendors upon grove and 
town. 



Ye do not answer us ! ye do not hear ! 
We are forgotten ; and in your austere 
And calm indifference, ye little care 
AA^h ether we come or go, or whence or 

where. 
What passing generations fill these 

halls, 
What passing voices echo from these 

walls, 
Ye heed not ; we are only as the blast, 
A moment heard, and then forever past. 

Not so the teachers who in earlier'days 

Led our bewildered feet through learn- 
ing's maze ; 

They answer us — alas ! what have 1 
said ? 

What greetings come there from the 
voiceless dead ? 

What salutation, welcome, or reply ?^ 

What ]u-essure from the hands that life- 
less lie ? 

They are no longer here ; they all are 



gone 



J 



MORITURl SALUTAMUS. 



355 



Into the land of shadows, — all save 
one. 

Honor and reverence, and the good re- 
pute 

That follows faithful service as its fruit, 

Be unto him, whom living we salute. 

The great Italian poet, when he made 
His dreadful journey to the realms of 

shade, 
Met there the old instructor of his 

youth. 
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth : 
" 0, never from the memory of my 

heart 
Your dear, paternal image shall depart. 
Who while on earth, ere yet by death 

surprised. 
Taught me how mortals are immortal- 
ized ; 
How grateful am I for that patient care 
All my life long my language shall de- 
clare." 

To-day we make the poet's words our 

own, 
And utter them in plaintive undertone ; 
Nor to the living only be they said, 
But to the other living called the dead, 
Whose dear, paternal images appear 
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sun- 
shine here ; 
Whose simple lives, complete and with- 
out flaw. 
Were part and parcel of great Nature's 

law ; 
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, 
" Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," 
But labored in their sphere, as men who 

live 
In the delight that work alone can give. 
Peace be to them ; eternal peace and rest, 
And the fulfilment of the great behest : 
"Ye have been faithful over a few 

things. 
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." 

And ye who fill the places we once filled, 
And follow in the furrows that we tilled, 
Young men, whose generous hearts are 

beating high. 
We who are old, and are about to die. 
Salute you ; hail you ; take your hands 

in ours. 
And crown you with our welcome as 

with flowers ! 



How beautiful is youth ! how bright it 

gleatus 
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 
Book of Beginnings, Story without End, 
Each maid a heroine, and each man a 

friend ! 
Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, 
That holds the treasures of the universe ! 
All possibilities are in its hands. 
No danger daunts it, and no foe with- 
stands ; 
In its sublime audacity of faith, 
" Be thou removed !" it to the moun- 
tain saith, 
And with ambitious feet, secure and 

proud, 
Ascends the ladder leaning on the 
cloud ! 

As ancient Priam at the Screan gate 
Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state 
With the old men, too old and w^eak to 

fight. 
Chirping like grasshoppers in their de- 
light 
To see the embattled hosts, with spear 

and shield, 
Of Trojans and Achaians in the field ; 
So from the snowy summits of our years 
We see you in the plain, as each appears, 
And question of you ; asking, "Who is 

he 
That towers above the others ? Which 

may be 
Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, 
Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus ? " 

Let him not boast who puts his armor 
on 

As he who puts it oflf, the battle done. 

Study yourselves ; and most of all note 
well 

Wherein kind Nature meant you to 
excel. 

Not every blossom ripens into fruit ; 

Minerva, the inventress of the flute. 

Flung it aside, when she her face sur- 
veyed 

Distorted in a fountain as she played ; 

The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his 
fate 

AVas one to make the bravest hesitate. 

Write on your doors the saying wise and 

old, 
"Be bold ! be bold ! " and every-where 

— "Behold; 



356 



MOKITURI SALUTAMUS. 



Be not too bold ! " Yet better the ex- 
cess 

Thcan the defect ; better the more than 
less ; 

Better like Hector in the field to die, 

Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly. 

And now, my classmates ; ye remaining 

few 
That number not the half of those we 

knew, 
Ye, against whose familiar names not 

yet 
The fatal asterisk of death is set. 
Ye I salute ! The horologe of Time 
Strikes the half-century with a solenni 

chime. 
And sununons us together once again, 
Thejoyofmeeting not unmixed with pain. 

"Where are the others ? Voices from the 
deep 

Caverns of darkness answer me : "They 
sleep ! " 

1 name no names ; instinctively I feel 

Each at some well-remembered grave 
will kneel. 

And from the inscription wipe the weeds 
and moss, 

For every heart best knoweth its own 
loss. 

I see their scattered gravestones gleam- 
ing white 

Through the pale dusk of the impend- 
ing night ; 

O'er all alike the impartial sunset 
throws 

Its golden lilies mingled with the rose ; 

We give to each a tender thought, and 
pass 

Out of the graveyards with their tangled 
grass, 

tJnto these scenes frequented by our feet 

When we were young, and life was fi-esh 
and sweet. 



What shall I say to you ? What can I 
say 

Better than silence is ? When I survey 

This throng of faces turned to meet my 
own, 

Friendly and fair, and yet to me un- 
known. 

Transformed the very landscape seems 
to be ; 

It is the same, yet not the same to me. 



So many memories crowd upon my brain, 
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, 
I fain would steal away, with noiseless 

tread, 
As from a house where some one lieth 

dead. 
I cannot go ; — I pause ; — I hesitate ; 
My feet reluctant linger at the gate ; 
As one who struggles in a troubled 

dream 
To speak and cannot, to myself 1 seem. 

Vanish the dream ! Vanish the idle 
fears ! 

Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years ! 

Whatever time or space may intervene, 

1 will not be a stranger in this scene. 

Here every doubt, all indecision, ends ; 

Hail, my companions, comrades, class- 
mates, friends ! 

Ah me ! the fifty years since last we met 
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set 
By Time, the great transcriber, on his 

shelves, 
Wherein are wiitten the histories of 

ourselves. 
What tragedies, what comedies, are 

there ; 
What joy and grief, what rapture and 

despair ! 
AVhat chronicles of triumph and defeat, 
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! 
What records of regrets, and doubts, and 

fears ! 
What pages blotted, blistered by our 

tears ! 
What lovely landscapes on the margin 

shine. 
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine 
And holy images of love and trust, 
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or 

dust ! 

Whose hand shall dare to open and ex- 
plore 

These volumes, closed and clasped for- 
evermore ? 

Not mine. With reverential feet I pass ; 

1 hear a voice that cries, "Alas ! alas ! 

Wliatever hath been written shall re- 
main. 

Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; 

The unwritten only still belongs to 
thee : 

Take heed, and ponder well what that 
shall be." 



MORITUKI SALUTAMUS. 



357 



As children frightened by a thunder- 
cloud 
Are reassured if some one reads aloud 
A tale of wonder, with enchantment 

fraught, 
Or wild adventure, that diverts their 

thought, 
Let me endeavor with a tale to chase 
The gathering shadows of the time and 

place. 
And banish what we all too deeply feel 
Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. 

In mediaeval Rome, I know not where, 
There stood an image with its arm in 

air. 
And on its lifted finger, shining clear, 
A golden ring with the device, "Strike 

here ! " 
Greatly the people wondered, though 

none guessed 
The meaning that these words but half 

expressed, 
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday 
With downcast eyes was passing on his 

way, 
Paused, and observed the spot, and 

marked it well. 
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell ; 
And, coming back at midnight, delved, 

and found 
A secret stairway leading under ground. 
Down this he passed into a spacious 

hall. 
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall ; 
And opposite in threatening attitude 
With bow and shaft a brazen statue 

stood. 
Upon its forehead, like a coronet, 
Were these mysterious words of menace 

set : 
** That which I am, I am ; my fatal aim 
None can escape, not even yon lumi- 
nous flame ! " 

Midway the hall was a fair table placed, 

With cloth of gold, and golden cups en- 
chased 

With rubies, and the plates and knives 
were gold, 

And gold the bread and viands mani- 
fold. 

Around it, silent, motionless, and sad. 

Were seated gallant knights in armor 
clad, 

And ladies beautiful with plume and 
zone. 



But they were stone, their hearts within 

were stone ; 
And the vast hall was filled in every part 
AVith silent crowds, stony in face and 

heart. 

Long at the scene, bewildered and 

amazed 
The trembling clerk in speechless won- 
der gazed ; 
Then from the table, by his greed made 

bold, 
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold. 
And suddenly from their seats the guests 

upsprang, 
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors 

rang, 
The archer sped bis arrow, at their call. 
Shattering the lambent jewel on the 

wall. 
And all was dark around and overhead ; — 
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay 

dead .' 

The writer of this legend then records 
Its ghostly application in these Avords : 
The image is the Adversary old. 
Whose beckoning finger points to realms 

of gold ; 
Our lusts and passions are the down- 
ward stair 
That leads the soul from a diviner air ; 
The archer. Death ; the flaming jewel, 

Life ; 
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the 

knife ; 
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh 

and bone 
By avarice have been hardened into 

stone ; 
The clerk, the scholar whom the love 

of pelf 
Tempts from his books and from his 

nobler self. 

The scholar and the world ! The end- 
less strife, 

The discord in the harmonies of life ! 

The love of learning, the sequestered 
nooks. 

And all the sweet serenity of books ; 

The market-place, the eager love of gain, 

Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is 
pain ! 

But why, you ask me, should this tale be 
told 



358 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



To men grown old, or who are growing 

old? 
It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late 
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpi- 
tate. 
Cato learned Greek at eighty ; Sophocles 
Wrote his grand Gidipus, and Sinionides 
Bore off the prize of verse from his com- 
peers, 
When each had numbered more than 

fourscore years, 
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, 
Had but begun his Characters of Men 
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the night- 
ingales. 
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales ; 
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, 
Completed Faust when eighty years were 

past. 
These are indeed exceptions ; but they 

show 
How far the gulf-stream of our youth 

may flow 
Into the arctic regions of our lives, 
Where little else than life itself survives. 

As the barometer foretells the storm 
While still the skies are clear, the 

weather warm. 
So something in us, as old age draws 

near. 
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. 
The nimble mercury, ere we are aware. 
Descends the elastic ladder of the air ; 
The telltale blood in artery and vein 



Sinks from its higher levels in the brain ; 

Whatever poet, orator, or page 

May say of it, old age is still old age. 

It is the waning, not the crescent moon ; 

The dusk of evening, not the blaze of 
noon : 

It is not strength, but weakness ; not de- 
sire, 

But its surcease ; not the tierce heat of 
fire. 

The burning and consuming element. 

But that of ashes and of embers spent, 

In which some living sparks we still 
discern. 

Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. 

What then ? Shall we sit idly down 
and say 

The night hath come ; it is no longer day ? 

The night hath not yet come ; we are 
not quite 

Cut off' from labor by the failing light ; 

Something remains for us to do or dare ; 

Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear ; 

Not (Edipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, 

Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode 

Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, 

But other something, would we but be- 
gin ; 

For age is opportunity no less 

Than youth itself, though in another 
dress, 

And as the evening twilight fades away 

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by 
day. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT THE FOURTH. 



CHARLES SUMNER. 

Gaulands upon his grave. 
And flowers upon his hearse, 
And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 

His was the troubled life, 
The conflict and the pain. 
The grief, the bitterness of strife, 
The honor without stain. 



Like Winkelried, he took 
Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke 
A path for the oppressed. 

Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation's heart 
Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — 
So should the brave depart. 

Death takes us by surprise. 
And stays our hurrying feet ; 



CADENABBIA. 



359 



The great design unfinished lies, 
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown 

Perfect their circles seem, 

Even as a bridge's arch of stone 

Is rounded in the stream. 

Alike are life and death, 
When life in death survives, 
A.nd the uninterrupted breath 
Inspires a thousand lives. 

Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light. 
Still travelling downward from the sky, 
Shine on our mortal sight. 

So when a great man dies, 
For years beyond our ken. 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths- of men. 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 

And yonder gilded vane, 
Immovable for three days past. 

Points to the misty main. 

It drives me in upon myself 

And to the fireside gleams. 
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf. 

And still more pleasant dreams. 

I read whatever bards have sung 

Of lands beyond the sea. 
And the bright days when I was young 

Come thronging back to me. 

In fancy I can hear again 

The Alpine torrent's roar, 
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 

The sea at Elsinore. 

I see the convent's gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pine, 

And towers of old cathedrals tall. 
And castles by the Rhine. 

I journey on by park and spire, 

Beneath centennial trees, 
Through fields with poppies all on fire, 

And gleams of distant seas. 



I fear no more the dust and heat. 

No more I feel fatigue, 
While journeying with another's feet 

O'er many a lengthening league. 

Let others traverse sea and land,] 
And toil through various climes, 

I turn the world round with my hand 
Reading these poets' rhymes. 

From them 1 learn whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zone, 

And see, when looking with their eyes, 
Better than with mine own. 



CADENABBIA. 

LAKE OF COMO. 

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks 
The silence of the summer day, 

As by the loveliest of all lakes 
I while the idle hours away. 

I pace the leafy colonnade 

Where level branches of the plane 
Above me weave a roof of shade 

Impervious to the sun and rain. 

At times a sudden rush of air 
Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, 

And gleams of sunshine toss and flare 
Like torches down the path I tread. 

By Somariva's garden gate 

I make the marble stairs my seat, 

And hear the water, as I wait. 

Lapping the steps beneath my feet. 

The undulation sinks and swells 

Along the stony parapets. 
And far away the floating bells 

Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 

Silent and slow, by tower and town 
The freighted barges come and go. 

Their pendent shadows gliding down 
By town and tower submerged below. 

The hills sweep upward from the shore. 
With villas scattered one by one 

Upon their wooded spurs, and lower 
Bellaggio blazing in the sun. 

And dimly seen, a tangled mass 

Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 



360 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass 
Varenna with its white cascade. 

I ask myself, Is this a dream ? 

Will it all vanish into air ? 
Is there a land of such supreme 

And perfect beauty anywhere ? 

Sweet vision ! Do not fade away : 
Linger until my heart shall take 

Into itself the summer day, 
And all the beauty of the lake. 

Linger until upon my brain 

Is stamped an image of the scene, 

Then fade into the air again, 

And be as if thou hadst not been. 



MONTE CASSINO. 

TERRA DI LAVORO. 

Beautiful valley ! through whose ver- 
dant meads 

Unheard the Garigliano glides along ; — 
The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, 

The river taciturn of classic song. 

The Land of Labor and the Land of Eest, 
Where mediaeval towns are white on all 

The hillsides, and where every moun- 
tain's crest 
Is an Etrurian or a Eoman wall. 

There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface 
Was dragged with contumely from his 
throne ; 
Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace 
The Pontiff's only, or in part thine 
own ? 

There is Ceprano, where a renegade 
Was each Apulian, as great Dante 
saith, 
When Manfred by his men-at-arms be- 
trayed 
Spurred on to Benevento and to death. 

There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town. 

Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid 

light 

Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the 

crown 

Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. 



Doubled the splendor is, that in its 
streets 
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy 
played, 
And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that 
he repeats 
In ponderous folios for scholastics made. 

And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud 
That pauses on a mountain sumrai*^ 
high, 

Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud 
And venerable walls against the sky. 

Well I remember how on foot I climbed 
The stony pathway leading to its gate ; 
Above, the convent bells for vespers 
chimed. 
Below, the darkening town grew des- 
olate. 

Well I remember the low arch and dark, 
The court-yard with its well, the ter- 
race wide. 
From which, far down, the valley like a 
paik 
Veiled in the evening mists, was dim 
descried. 

The day was dying, and with feeble 
hands 
Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales 
between 
Darkened ; the river in the meadow- 
lands 
Sheathed itself as a sword, and was 
not seen. 

The silence of the place was like a sleep. 
So full of rest it seemed ; each passing 
tread 

Was a reverberation from the deep 
Eecesses of the ages that are dead. 

For, more than thirteen centuries ago, 
Benedict fleeing from the gates of 
Pome, 
A youth disgusted with its vice and woe. 
Sought in these mountain solitudes a 
home. 

He founded here his Convent and his 

Pule 

Of prayer and work, and counted 

work as prayer ; 

The pen became a clarion, and his schoo\ 

Flamed like a beacon in the midnight 



AMALFl. 



361 



What though Boccaccio, in his reckless 
way, 
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, de- 
])lores 
The illuminated manuscripts, that lay 
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors ? 

Boccaccio was a novelist, a child 
Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! 

This the urbane librarian said, and smiled 
Incredulous, as at some idle jest. 

Upon such themes as these, with one 
young friar 
I sat conversing late into the night, 
Till in its cavernous chimney the wood- 
fire 
Had burnt its heart out like an ancho- 
rite. 

And then translated, in my convent cell, 
Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay. 

And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, 
Started from sleep ; already it was day. 

From the high window I beheld the scene 
On which Saint Benedict so oft had 
gazed, — 
The mountains and the valley in the 
sheen 
Of the bright sun, — and stood as one 
amazed. 

Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanish- 
ing ; 
The woodlands glistened with their 
jewelled crowns ; 
Far off the mellow bells began to ring 
For matins in the half-awakened towns. 

The conflict of the Present and the Past, 
The ideal and the actual in our life, 

As on a field of battle held me fast, 
Where this world and the next world 
were at strife. 

For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, 

I saw the iron horses of the steam 
Toss to the morning air their plumes of 
smoke. 
And woke, as one awaketh from a 
dream. 



AMALFl. 

Sweet the memory is to me 

Of a land beyond the sea. 

Where the waves and mountains meet. 



Where, amid her mulberry-trees 
Sits Amalfi in the heat. 
Bathing ever her white feet 
In the tideless summer seas. 

In the middle of the town. 

From its fountains in the hills. 

Tumbling through the narrow gorge. 

The Canneto rushes down. 

Turns the great wheels of the mills, 

Lifts the hammers of the forge. 

'T is a stairway, not a street. 
That ascends the deep ravine, 
Where the torrent leaps between 
Rocky walls that almost meet. 
Toiling up from stair to stair 
Peasant girls their burdens bear ; 
Sunburnt daughters of the soil. 
Stately figures tall and straight, 
What inexorable fate 
Dooms them to this life of toil ? 

Lord of vineyards and of lands, 
Far above the convent stands. 
On its terraced walk aloof 
Leans a monk with folded hands, 
Placid, satisfied, serene. 
Looking down upon the scene 
Over wall and red-tiled roof ; 
Wondering unto what good end 
All this toil and traffic tend. 
And why all men cannot be 
Free from care and free from pain, 
And the sordid love of gain, 
And as indolent as he. 

Where are now the freighted bai-ks 
From the marts of east and west ? 
Where the knights in iron sarks 
Journeying to the Holy Land, 
Glove of steel upon the hand, 
Cross of crimson on the breast ? 
Where the pomp of camp and court ? 
Where the pilgrims with their praj'ers ? 
Where the merchants with their wares, 
And their gallant brigantines 
Sailing safely into port 
Chased by corsair Algerines ? 

Vanished like a fleet of cloud, 
Like a passing trumpet-blast. 
Are those splendors of the past, 
And the commerce and the crowd \ 
Fathoms deep beneath the seas 
Lie the ancient wharves and quays, 
Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; 



362 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Silent streets and vacant halls, 
Ruined roofs and towers and walls ; 
Hidden from all mortal eyes 
Deep the sunken city lies : 
Even cities have their graves ! 

This is an enchanted land ! 
Round the headlands far away 
Sweeps the blue Salernian bay 
With its sickle of white sand : 
Further still and furthermost 
On the dim discovered coast 
Psestum with its ruins lies, 
And its roses all in bloom 
Seem to tinge the fatal skies 
Of that lonely land of doom. 

On his terrace, high in air, 
Nothing doth the good monk care 
For such worldly themes as these. 
From the garden just below 
Little putis of perfume blow, 
And a sound is in his ears 
Of the murmur of the bees 
In the shining chestnut-trees ; 
Nothing else he heeds or hears. 
All the landscape seems to swoon 
In the happy afternoon ; 
Slowly o'er his senses creep 
The encroaching waves of sleep, 
And he sinks as sank the town, 
Unresisting, fathoms down. 
Into caverns cool and deep ! 

Walled about with drifts of snow, 
Hearing the fierce north-wind blow. 
Seeing all the landscape white, 
And the river cased in ice. 
Comes this memory of delight. 
Comes this vision unto me 
Of a long-lost Paradise 
In the land beyond the sea. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 

Up soared the lark into the air, 
A shaft of song, a winged prayer, 
As if a soul, released from pain. 
Were flying back to heaven again. 

St. Francis heard ; it was to him 
An emblem of the Seraphim ; 
The u])ward motion of the fire,. 
The light, the heat, the heart's desire. 



Around Assisi's convent gate 
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, 
From moor and mere and darksome wood 
Came flocking for their dole of food. 

"O brother birds," St. Francis said, 
' ' Ye come to me and ask for bread, 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 

" Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, 
With manna of celestial words ; 
Not mine, though mine they seem to be. 
Not mine, though they be spoken through 
me. 

" 0, doubly are ye bound to praise 
The great Creator in your lays ; 
He giveth you your plumes of down, 
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. 

" He giveth you your wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 
And careth for you everywhere, 
Who for yourselves so little care ! ' ' 

With flutter of swift wings and songs 
Together rose the feathered throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart ; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. 

He knew not if the brotherhood 
His homily had understood ; 
He only knew that to one ear 
The meaning of his words was clear. 



BELISARIUS. 

I AM poor and old and blind ; 
The sun burns me, and the wind 

Blows through the city gate 
And covers me with dust 
From the wheels of the august 

Justinian the Great. 

It was for him I chased 

The Persians o'er wild and waste. 

As General of the East ; 
Night after night I lay 
In their camps of yesterday ; 

Their forage was my feast. 

For him, with sails of red, 
And torches at mast-head, 
Piloting the great fleet, 



SONGO RIVER. 



363 



I swept the Afric coasts 
And scattered the Vandal hosts, 
Like dust in a windy street. 

For him I won again 

The Ausonian realm and reign, 

Kome and Parthenope ; 
And all the land was mine 
From the summits of Apennine 

To the shores of either sea. 

For him, in ray feeble age, 
I dared the battle's rage, 

To save Byzantium's state, 
When the tents of Zabergan, 
Like snow-drifts overran 

The road to the Golden Gate. 

And for this, for this, behold ! 
Infirm and blind and old, 

With gray, uncovered head. 
Beneath the very arch 
Of my triumphal march, 

i stand and beg my bread ! 

Methinks I still can hear, 
Sounding distinct and near, 

The Vandal monarch's cry. 
As, captive and disgraced. 
With majestic step he paced, — 

"All, all is Vanity!" 

Ah ! vainest of all things 
Is the gratitude of kings ; 

The plaudits of the crowd 
Are but the clatter of feet 
At midnight in the street. 

Hollow and restless and loud. 

But the bitterest disgrace 
Is to see forever the face 

Of the Monk of Ephesus ! 
The unconquerable will 
This, too, can bear ; — I still 

Am Belisarius ! 



SONGO RIVER. 

N OWHERE such a devious stream, 
Save in fancy or in dream, 



Winding slow through bush and brake 
Links together lake and lake. 

Walled with woods or sandy shelf, 
Ever doubling on itself 
Flows the stream, so still and slow 
That it hardly seems to flow. 

Never errant knight of old, 
Lost in woodland or on wold, 
Such a winding path pursued 
Through the sylvan solitude. 

Never school-boy in his quest 
After hazel-nut or nest, 
Through the forest in and out 
Wandered loitering thus about. 

In the mirror of its tide 
Tangled thickets on each side 
Hang inverted, and between 
Floating cloud or sky serene. 

Swift or swallow on the wing 
Seems the only living thing. 
Or the loon, that laughs and flies 
Down to those reflected skies. 

Silent stream ! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame ; 
Foi thou hidest here alone. 
Well content to be unknown. 

But thy tranquil waters teach 
Wisdom deep as human speech, 
Moving without haste or noise 
In unbroken equipoise. 

Though thou turnest no busy mill, 
And art ever calm and still. 
Even thy silence seems to say 
To the traveller on his way : — 

' ' Traveller, hurrying from the heat 
Of the city, stay thy feet ! 
Rest awhile, nor longer waste 
Life with inconsiderate haste ! 

" Be not like a stream that brawls 
Loud witli shallow waterfalls, 
But in quiet self-control 
Link together soul and souL" 



364 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 



V^fHEN I remember them, those friends 
of mine, 

Who are no longer here, the noble 
three, 

Who half my life were more than 
friends to me, 

And whose discourse was like a gener- 
ous wine, 
t most of all remember the divine 

Something, that shone in them, and 
made us see 

The archetypal man, and what might 
be 

The amplitude of Nature's first design. 
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp 
their hands ; 

I cannot find them. Nothing now is 
left 

But a majestic memory. They mean- 
while 
Wander together in Elysian lands. 

Perchance remembering me, who am 
bereft 

Of their dear presence, and, remem- 
bering, smile. 



II. 

In Attica thy birthplace should have 
been, 

Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas 

Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, 

So wholly Greek wast thou in thy se- 
rene 
And childlike joy of life, Philhellene ! 

Around thee would have swarmed the 
Attic bees ; 

Homer had been thy friend, or Soc- 
rates, 

And Plato welcomed thee to his de- 
mesne. 
For thee old legends breathed historic 
breath ; 

Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple 
sea, 



And in the sunset Jason's tleece of 

gold! 
0, what hadst thou to do with cruel 

Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or Death 

with thee, 
That thou shouldst die before thou 

hadst grown old ! 



III. 

I STAND again on the familiar shore. 
And hear the waves of the distracted 

sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting thee. 
And waiting restless at thy cottage 

door. 
The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean 

floor, 
The willows in the meadow, and the 

free 
Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome 

me ; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, and 

come no more ? 
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when 

common men 
Are busy with their trivial affairs. 
Having and holding ? Why, when 

thou hadst read 
Nature's mysterious manuscript, and 

then 
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, 
Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst 

thou be dead ? 



IV. 

River, that stealest with such silent 
pace 
Around the City of the Dead, where 

lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and 

whom these eyes 
Shall see no more in his accustomed 
place, 
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace 



MILTON. 



365 



And say good night, for now the 

western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists 

arise 
Like damps that gather on a dead 

man's face. 
Good night ! good night ! as we so oft 

have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the 



That are no more, and shall no more 

return. 
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone 

to bed ; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn. 



V. 



TfiE doors are all wide open ; at the 

gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a 

blaze. 
And seem to warm the air ; a dreamy 

haze 
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows 

like a fate, 
And on their margin, with sea-tides 

elate. 
The flooded Charles, as in the happier 

days. 
Writes the last letter of his name, and 

stays 
His restless steps, as if compelled to 

wait. 
I also wait ; but they will come no 

more. 
Those friends of mine, whose presence 

satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of my heart. 

Ah me ! 
They have forgotten the pathway to my 

door ! 

ethiug 

they died^ 
And summer is not summer, nor can 

be. 



CHAUCER. 

An old man in a lodge within a park ; 
The chamber walls depicted all 

around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, 

and hound. 



And the hurt deer. He listeneth to 

the lark, 
Whose song comes with the sunshine 

through the dark 
Of painted glass in leaden lattice 

bound ; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at the 

sound, 
Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song ; and as I 

read 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every 

page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery 

mead. 



SHAKESPEARE. 

A VISION as of crowded city streets, 
With human life in endless overflow ; 
Thunder of thoroughfares ; trumpets 

that blow 

To battle ; clamor, in obscure retreats, 

Of sailors landed from their anchored 

fleets ; 

Tolling of bells in turrets, and below 

Voices of children, and bright flowers 

that throw 
O'er garden-walls their intermingled 
sweets ! 
This vision comes to me when I unfold 
The volume of the Poet paramount, 
Whom all the Muses loved, not one 
alone ; — 
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, 
And, crowned with sacred laurel at 

their fount, 
Placed him as Musagetes on their 
throne. 



MILTON. 

I PACE the sounding sea-beach and be> 

hold 
How the voluminous billows roll and 

run, 
Upheaving and subsiding, while the 

sun 
Shinps through their sheeted emerald 

far unrolled, 
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold 

by fold 



see 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



All its loose-flowing garments into 

one, 
Plunges upon the shore, and floods 

the dun 
Pale reach of sands, and changes 

them to gold. 
So in majestic cadence rise and fall 
The mighty undulations of thy song, 
sightless bard, England's Mseoni- 

des! 
And ever and anon, high over all 
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and 

strong, 
Floods all the soul with its melodious 



KEATS. 

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's 

sleep ; 
The shepherd-boy whose tale was left 

half told ! 
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of 

gold 
To the red rising moon, and loud and 

deep 

The nightingale is singingfrom the steep ; 

It is midsummer, but the air is cold ; 

Can it be death ? Alas, beside the fold 

A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near 

his sheep. 
Lo ! in the moonlight gleams a marble 

white. 
On which I read : "Here lieth one 

whose name 
Was writ in water." And was this 

the meed 
Of his sweet singing ? Rather let me 

write : 
"The smoking flax before it burst to 

flame 
"Was quenched by death, and broken 

the bruised reed." 



THE GALAXY. 

Torrent of light and river of the air. 
Along whose bed the glimmering stars 

are seen 
Like gold and silver sands in some 

ravine 
Where mountain streams have left 
their channels bare ! 
The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, 
where 



His patron saint descended in the sheen 
Of his celestial armor, on serene 
And quiet nights, when all the heavens 

were fair. 
Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable 
Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched 

the skies 
Where'er the hoofs of his hot coursers 

trod ; 
But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms 

of sable. 
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft 

and flies 
From the invisible chariot-wheels of 

God. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

THEseaawokeat midnight from its sleep, 
And round the pebbly beaches far and 

wide 
I heard the first wave of the rising tide 
Rush onward with uninterrupted 
sweep ; 
A voice out of the silence of the deep, 
A sound mysteriously multiplied 
As of a cataract from the mountain's 

side, 
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. 
So comes to us at times, from the un- 
known 
And inaccessible solitudes of being, 
The rushing of the sea- tides of the soul ; 
And inspirations, that we deem our own. 
Are some divine foreshadowing and 

foreseeing 
Of things beyond our reason or control. 



A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. 

The sun is set ; and in his latest beams 
Yon little cloudof ashen gray and gold, 
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, 
The falling mantle of the Prophet 
seems. 
From the dim headlands many a light- 
house gleams, 
The street-lamps of the ocean; and 

behold, 
O'erhead the banners of the night un^ 

fold ; * 

The day hath passed into the land of 
dreams. 
summer day beside the joyous sea ! 
summer day so wonderful and white, 



I 



SLEEP. 



367 



So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 
Forever and forever shalt thou be 
To some the gravestone of a dead de- 

. light, 
To some the landmark of a new do- 



THE TIDES. 

I SAW the long line of the vacant shore, 

The sea-weed and the shells upon the 
sand, 

And the brown rocks left bare on every 
hand, 

As if the ebbing tide would flow no 
more. 
Then heard I, more distinctly than before, 

The ocean breathe and its great breast 
expand, 

And hurrying came on the defenceless 
land 

The insurgent waters with tumultuous 
roar. 
All thought and feeling and desire, I 
said, 

Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of 
song 

Have ebbed from me forever! Sud- 
denly o'er me 
They swept again from their deep ocean 
bed, 

And in a tumult of delight, and strong 

As youth, and beautiful as youth, up- 
bore me. 



A SHADOW. 

I SAID unto myself, if I were dead, 
What would befall these children? 

What would be 
Their fate, who now are looking up to 

me 
For help and furtherance 1 Their lives, 
I said, 
Would be a volume wherein I have read 
But the first chapters, and no longer 

see 
To read the rest of their dear history, 
So full of beauty and so full of dread. 
Be comforted ; the world is very old, 
And generations pass, as they have 



A troop of shadows moving with the 



Thousands of times has the old tale been 

told; 
The world belongs to those who come 

the last, 
They will find hope and strength as 

we have done. 



A NAMELESS GRAVE. 

'* AsOLDiERof the Union mustered out,' 
Is the inscription on an unknown grave 
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea 

wave, 
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or 

scout 
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 
Its iron wedges through the ranks of 

brave 
And doomed battalions, storming the 

redoubt. 
Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea 
In thy forgotten grave ! with secret 

shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, 
When I remember thou hast given for me 
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very 

name. 
And I can give thee nothing in return. 

SLEEP. 

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful 
sound 

Seems from some faint iEolian harp- 
string caught ; 

Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of 
thought 

As Hermes with his lyre in sleep pro- 
found 
The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus 
bound ; 

For I am weary, and am overwrought 

With too much toil, with too much 
care distraught, 

And with the iron crown of anguish 
crowned. 
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and 
cheek, 

peaceful Sleep ! until from pain re- 

leased 

1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! 
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the 

Greek 
Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast 
Whereof the greater mystery is death ! 



368 



K^RAMOS. 



THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE. IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE. 



Taddeo Gaddi built me. I ain old, 
Five centuries old. I plant my foot 

of stone 
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own 
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by 
fold 
Beneath me as it struggles, I behold 
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it 

overthrown 
My kindred and companions. Me 

alone 
It moveth not, but is by me controlled. 
I can remember when the Medici 

Were driven from Florence ; longer 

still ago 
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. 
Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; 
And when I think that Michael Angelo 
Hath leaned on mt, I glory in myself. 



Gaddi mi fece ; il Ponte Vecchio sono ; 
Cinquecent' anni gia suU' Arno pi- 

anto 
II piede, come il suo Michele Santo 
Piant6 sul draco. Mentre ch' io ra« 
giono 
Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono 

Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi af- 

franto 
Due volte i miei maggior. Me solo 

intanto 
Neppure muove, ed io non V abban- 
dono. 
Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati 
I Medici ; pur quando Ghibellino 
E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. 
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati j 
E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino 
Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento. 



KERAMOS 



Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round 

and round 
Without a pause, without a sound : 

So spins the flying world away ! 
Thisclay, well mixed withmarl and sand, 
Follows the motion of my hand ; 
For some must follow, and some corn- 



Though all are made of clay ! 

Thus sang the Potter at his task 

Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree. 

While o'er his features, like a mask, 

The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade 

Moved, as the boughs above him swayed. 

And clothed him, till he seemed to be 

A figure woven in tapestry. 

So sumptuously was he arrayed 

In that magnificent attire 

Of sable tissue flaked with fire. 

Like a magician he appeared, 

A conjurer without book or beard ; 

And while he plied his magic art — 

For it was magical to me — 

I stood in silence and apart, 

And wondered more and more to see 

That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay 



Rise up to meet the master's hand. 
And now contract and now expand, 
And even his slightest touch obey ; 
While ever in a thoughtful mood 
He sang his ditty, and at times 
Whistled a tune between the rhymes. 
As a melodious interlude. 

Turn, turn, my wheel! All things 7nicsH 

change 
To soiiuthing new, to something strange ; 

Nothing that is can pause or stay ; 
Tlie moon will wax, the moon will v^ane^ 
The mist and cloud xoill turn to rain^ 
The rain to mist and cloud again, 

To-morroio be to-day. 

Thus still the Potter sang, and still. 
By some unconscious act of will. 
The melody and even the words 
Were intermingled with my thought, 
As bits of colored thread aie caught 
And woven into nests of birds. 
And thus to regions far remote, 
Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, 
This wizard in the motley coat 
Transported me on wings of song. 



KERAMOS. 



369 



And by the northern shores of France 
Bore me witl restless speed along. 
What land i;. this that seems to be 
A mingling of the land and sea ? 
This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes ? 
This water-net, that tessellates 
The landscape ? this unending maze 
Of gardens, through whose latticed gates 
The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze ; 
Where in long summer afternoons 
The sunshine, softened by the haze, 
Comes streaming down as through a 

screen ; 
Where over fields and pastures green 
The painted ships float high in air, 
And over all and everywhere 
The sails of windmills sink and soar 
Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore ? 

What land is this ? Yon pretty town 
Is Delft, with all its wares displayed ; 
The pride, the market-place, the crown 
And centre of the Potter's trade. 
See ! every house and room is bright 
With glimmers of reflected light 
From plates that on the dresser shine ; 
Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, 
Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, 
And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, 
And ships upon a rolling sea. 
And tankards pewter topped, and queer 
With comic mask and musketeer ! 
Each hospitable chimney smiles 
A welcome from its painted tiles; 
The parlor walls, the chamber floors, 
The stairways and the corridors, 
The borders of the garden walks. 
Are beautiful with fadeless flowers. 
That never droop in winds or showers. 
And never wither on their stalks. 

Turn, turn, my loheel I All life is brief ; 
What now is hud will soon he leaf, 

What now is leaf will soon decay ; 
The wi7id hloivs east, the vjind hlows west ; 
The blue eggs in the robins nest 
Will soon have icings and beak andhr east ^ 

And flutter and fly away. 

Now southward through the air I glide, 
The song my only pursuivant. 
And see across the landscape wide 
The blue Charente, upon whose tide 
The belfries and the spires of Salutes 
Ripple and rock from side to side, 
As, when an earthquake rends its walls, 
A crumbling city reels and falls. 



Who is it in the suburbs here, 
This Potter, working with such cheer, 
In this mean house, this mean attire, 
His maidy features bronzed with fire, 
Whose figulines and rustic wares 
Scarce find him bread from day to day ? 
This madman, as the people say, 
Who breaks his tables and his chairs 
To feed his furnace fizes, nor cares 
Who goes unfed if they are fed. 
Nor who may live if they are dead ? 
This alchemist with hollow cheeks 
And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, 
By mingled earths and ores combined 
With potency of fire, to find 
Some new enamel, hard and bright, 
His dream, his passion, his delight ? 

Palissy ! within thy breast 
Burned the hot fever of unrest ; 
Tliine was the prophet's vision, thine 
The exultation, the divine 
Insanity of noble minds. 

That never falters nor abates, 
But labors and endures and waits, 
Till all that it foresees it finds, 
Or what it cannot find creates ! 

Turn, turn, my wheel ! This earthen jar 
A touch can make, a touch can mar ; 

And shall it to the Potter say, 
What makest thou ? Thou ha^t no hand ? 
As men icho think to understand 
A world by their Creater planned, 
Who wiser is than they. 

Still guided by the dreamy song, 

As in a trance I float along 

Above the Pyrenean chain. 

Above the fields and farms of Spain, 

Above the bright Majorcan isle. 

That lends its softened name to art, — 

A spot, a dot upon the chart, 

Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile. 

Are ruby-lustred with the light 

Of blazing furnaces by night, 

And crowned by day with wreaths of 

smoke. 
Then eastward, wafted in my flight 
On my enchanter's magic cloak, 

1 sail across the Tyrrhene Sea 
Into the land of Italy, 

And o'er the windy Apennines, 
Mantled and musical with pines. 

The palaces, the princely halls. 
The doors of houses and the walls 



370 



K^RAMOS. 



Of churches and of belfi^ towers, 
Cloister and castle, street and mart, 
Are garlanded and gay with flowers 
That blossom in the fields of art. 
Here Gubbio's workshops gleam andglow 
With brilliant, iridescent d3-es. 
The dazzling whiteness of the snow, 
The cobalt blue of summer skies ; 
And vase and scutcheon, cup and plate, 
In perfect finish emulate 
Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. 

Forth from Urbino's gate there came 
A youth with the angelic name 
Of Raphael, in form and face 
Himself angelic, and divine 
In arts of color and design. 
From him Francesco Xanto caught 
Something of his transcendent grace, 
And into fictile fabrics wrought 
Suggestions of the master's thought. 
Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines 
With madre-perl and golden lines 
Of arabesques, and interweaves 
His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves 
About some landscape, shaded brown. 
With olive tints on rock and town. 
Behold this cup within whose bowl. 
Upon a ground of deepest blue 
With yellow-lustred stars o'erlaid, 
Colors of every tint and hue 
Mingle in one harmonious whole ! 
With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, 
Her yellow hair in net and braid, 
Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze 
With golden lustre o'er the glaze, 
A woman's portrait ; on the scroll, 
Cana, the Beautiful ! A name 
Forgotten save for such brief fame 
As this memorial can be^ow, — 
A gift some lover long ago 
Gave with his heart to this fair dame. 

A nobler title to renown 
Is thine, pleasant Tuscan town, 
Seated beside the Arno's stream ; 
For Lucca della Robbia there 
Created forms so wondrous fair, 
They made thy sovereignty supreme. 
These choristers with lips of stone. 
Whose music is not heard, but seen, 
Still chant, as from their organ -screen, 
Their Maker's praise ; nor these alone, 
But the more fragile forms of clay, 
Hardly less beautiful than they, 
These saints and angels that adorn 
The walls of hospitals, and tell 



The story of good deeds so well 
That poverty seems less forlorn, 
And life more like a holiday. 

Here in this old neglected church, 
That long eludes the traveller's search, 
Lies the dead bishop on his tomb ; 
Earth upon earth he slumbering lies. 
Life-like and death-like in the gloom j 
Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloonj 
And foliage deck his resting place ; 
A shadow in the sightless eyes, 
A pallor on the patient face. 
Made perfect by the furnace heat ; 
All earthly passions and desires 
Burnt out by purgatorial fires ; 
Seeming to say, " Our years are fleet. 
And to the weary death is sweet." 

But the most wonderful of all 

The ornaments on tomb or wall 

That grace the fair Ausonian shores 

Are those the faithful earth restores, 

Near some Apulian town concealed. 

In vineyard or in harvest field, — 

Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, 

]\Iemorials of forgotten griefs. 

Or records of heroic deeds 

Of demigods and mighty chiefs : 

Figures that almost move and speak, 

And, buried amid mould and weeds. 

Still in their attitudes attest 

The presence of the graceful Greek, — 

Achilles in his armor dressed, 

Alcides with the Cretan bull. 

And Aphrodite with her boy, 

Or lovely Helena of Troy, 

Still living and still beautiful. 

Turn, turn, my whcd! ' Tis nature's plan 
The child should groiv into the man. 

The man growiurinklcd, old, and^ray; 
In youth the heart exults and sings, 
The pulses leap, the feet have loings ; 
In age the cricket chir2JS, and brings 

The harvest home of day. 

And now the winds that southward blow. 
And cool the hot Sicilian isle. 
Bear me away. I see below 
The long line of the Libj'-an Nile, 
Flooding and feeding the parched land 
With annual ebb and overflow, 
A fallen palm whose branches lie 
Beneath the Abyssinian sky. 
Whose roots are in Egyptian sands. 
On either bank huge water-wheels, 



KERAMOS. 



371 



Belted with jars and drippaig weeds, 
Send fortli their melancholy moans, 
As if, in their gray mantles hid, 
Dead anchorites of the Thebaid 
Knelt on the shore and told their beads, 
Beating their breasts with loud appeals 
And penitential tears and groans. 

This city, walled and thickly set 
With glittering mosque and minaret, 
Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars 
The dreaming traveller first inhales 
The perfume of Arabian gales, 
And sees the fabulous earthen jars, 
Huge as were those wherein the maid 
Morgiana found the Forty Thieves 
Concealed in midnight ambuscade ; 
And seeing, more than half believes 
The fascinating tales that run 
Through all the Thousand Nights and 

One, 
Told by the fail' Scheherezade. 

More strange and wonderful than these 

Are the Egyptian deities. 

Amnion, and Emeth, and the grand 

Osiris, holding in his hand 

The lotus ; Isis, crowned and veiled ; 

The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx ; 

Bracelets with blue enamelled links ; 

The Scarabee in emerald mailed, 

Or spreading wide his funeral wings ; 

Lamps that perchance their night-watch 

kept 
O'er Cleopatra while she slept, — 
All plundered from the tombs of kings. 

Tur7i, turn, my wheel ! The human race, 
Of every tongue, of every x>lace, 

Caucasian, Coj'itic, or Malay, 
All that inhabit this great earth. 
Whatever he their rank or worth. 
Are kindred and allied by birth, 

And made of the same clay. 

O'er desert sands, o'er gulf and bay, 
O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay, 
Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, 
To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, 
And bird-like poise on balanced wing 
^bove the town of King-te-tching, 
A burning town, or seeming so, — 
Three thousand furnaces that glow 
Incessantly, and fill the air 
With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre 
And painted by the lurid glare, 
Df jets and flashes of red fire. 



As leaves that in the autumn fall, 
Spotted and veined with various hues. 
Are swept along the avenues, 
And lie in heaps by hedge and wall. 
So from this grove of chimneys whirled 
To all the markets of the world. 
These porcelain leaves are wafted on, — 
Light yellow leaves with spots and stains 
Of violet and of crimson dye, 
Or tender azure of a sky 
Just washed by gentle April rains, 
And beautiful with celadon. 

Nor less the coarser household wares, — 
The willow pattern, that we knew 
In childhood, with its bridge of blue 
Leading to unknown thoroughfares ; 
The solitary man who stares 
At the white river flowing through 
Its arches, the fantastic trees 
And wild perspective of the view ; 
And intermingled among these 
The tiles that in our nurseries 
Filled us with \vonder and delight, 
Or haunted us in dreams at night. 

And yonder by Nankin, behold ! 
The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, 
Uplifting to the astonished skies 
Its ninefold painted balconies. 
With balustrades of twining leaves. 
And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves 
Hang porcelain bells that all the time 
Ring with a soft, melodious chime ; 
While the whole fabric is ablaze 
With varied tints, all fused in one 
Great mass of color, like a maze 
Of flowers illumined by the sun. 

Turn, turn, my wheel ! What is begun 
At daybreak must at dark be done, 

To-morrow will be another day ; 
To-morroiv the hot furnace Jiame 
Will search the heart and try the frame. 
And stami') ivith honor or ivith shame 

These vessels made of clay. 

Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas. 
The islands of the Japanese 
Beneath me lie ; o'er lake and plain 
The stork, the heron, and the crane 
Through the clear realms of azure drift, 
And on the hillside I can see 
The villages of Imari, 
Whose thronged and flaming workshops 

lift 
Their twisted columns of smoke on high. 



372 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, 

With sunshine streaming through each 

rift, 
And broken arches of blue sky. 

All the bright flowers that fill the land, 
Ripple of waves on rock or sand, 
The snow on Fusiyama's cone. 
The midnight heaven so thickly sown 
With constellations of bright stars. 
The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make 
A whisper by each stream and lake, 
The saffron dawn, the sunset red, 
Are painted on these lovely jars ; 
Again the skylark sings, again 
The stork, the heron, and the crane 
Float through the azure overhead, 
The counterfeit and counterpart 
Of Nature reproduced in Art. 

Art is the child of Nature ; yes, 
Her darling child, in whom we trace 
The features of the mother's face, 
Her aspect and her attitude. 
All her majestic loveliness 
Chastened and softened and subdued 
Into a more attractive grace, 
And with a human sense imbued. 
He is the greatest artist, then, 
Whether of pencil or of pen, 



Who follows Nature. Never man, 

As artist or as artisan. 

Pursuing his own fantasies. 

Can touch the human heart, or please, 

Or satisfy our nobler needs. 

As he who sets his willing feet 

In Nature's footprints, light and fleet. 

And follows fearless where she leads. 

Thus mused I on that morn in May, 
Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, 
Whose eyes behold not what is near, 
But only what is far away, 
When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, 
The church-bell from the neighboring 

town 
Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. 
The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel, 
His apron on the grass threw down, 
Whistled his quiet little tune, 
Not overloud nor overlong. 
And ended thus his simple song: 

Stop, stop, my ivheel ! Too soon, too soon 
The noon will he the afternoon, 

Too soon to-day he yesterday ; 
Behind us in our indli we cast 
The hroken 2)otsherds of the past, 
And all are ground to dust at last, 

And trodden into clay / 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



FLIGHT THE FIFTH. 



THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. 

Warm and still is the summer night, 
As here by the river's brink I wander ; 

White overhead are the stars, and white 
The glimmering lamps on the hillside 
yonder. 

Silent are all the sounds of day ; 

Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, 
And the cry of the herons winging their 
way 
O'er the poet's house in the Ehnwood 
thickets. 

Cell to him, herons, as slowly you pass 
To your roosts in the haunts of the 
exiled thrushes. 



Sing him the song of the green morass, 
And the tides that water the reeds and 
rushes. 

Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, 
And the secret that baffles our utmost 
seeking ; 
For only a sound of lament we discern. 
And cannot interpret the words you 
' are speaking. 

Sing of the air, and the wild delight 
Of wings that uplift and winds that 
uphold you. 
The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight 
Through the drift of the floating mists 
that infold you ; 



I 



CASTLES IN SPAIN. 



373 



Of the landscape lying so far below. 
With its towns and rivers and desert 
places ; 
And the splendor of light above, and the 
glow 
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. 

Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, 
Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, 

Sound in his ears more sweet than yours. 
And if yours are not sweeter and wilder 
and better. 

Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, 
Where the boughs of the stately elms 
are meeting. 
Some one hath lingered to meditate. 
And send him unseen this friendly 
greeting ; 

That many another hath done the same. 
Though not by a sound was the silence 
broken ; 
The surest pledge of a deathless name 
• Is the silent liomage of thoughts un- 
spoken. 



A DUTCH PICTURE. 

Simon Danz has come home again. 
From cruising about with his bucca- 
neers ; 
He has singed the beard of the King of 

Spain, 
A.nd carried away the Dean of Jaen 
And sold him in Algiers. 

Tn his house by the Maese, with its roof 
of tiles, 

And weathercocks flying aloft in air, 
There are silver tankards of antique styles, 
Plunder of convent and castle, and piles 

Of carpets rich and rare. 

In his tulip-garden there by the town, 

Overlooking the sluggish stream. 
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, 
The old sea-captain, hale and brown, 
Walks in a waking dream. 

A smile in his gray mustachio lurks 

Whenever he thinks of the King of 

Spain, 

And the listed tulips look like Turks, 

A.nd the silent gardener as he works 

Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. 



The windmills on the outermost 

Verge of the landscape in the haze. 
To him are towers on the Spanish coast, 
With whiskered sentinels at their post, 
Though this is the river Maese. 

But when the winter rains begin. 

He sits and smokes by the blazing 
brands. 
And old seafaring men come in, 
Goat-bearded, gray, and with double 
chin. 
And rings upon their hands. 

They sit there in the shadow and shine 
Of the flickering fire of the winter night ; 

Figures in color and design 

Like those by Pembrandt of the Rhine, 
Half darkness and half light. 

And they talk of ventures lost or won. 
And their talk is ever and ever the 
same, 
While they drink the red wine of Tarra- 
gon, 
From the cellars of some Spanish Don, 
Or convent set on flame. 

Restless at times with heavy strides 

He paces his parlor to and fro ; 
He is like a ship that at anchor rides, 
And swings with the rising and falling 
tides, 
And tugs at her anchor-tow. 

Voices mysterious far and near, 

Sound of the Avind and sound of the sea, 
Are calling and whispering in his ear, 
' ' Simon Danz ! Why stayest thou here ? 
Come forth and follow me ! " 

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again 
For one more cruise with his bucca- 
neers. 
To singe the beard of the King of Spain, 
And capture another Dean of Jaen 
And sell him in Algiers. 



CASTLES IN SPAIN. 

How much of my young heart, Spain, 

Went out to thee in days of yore ! 
What dreams romantic filled my brain, 
And summoned back to life again 
The Paladins of Charlemagne 
The Cid Campeador ! 



374 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE, 



And shapes more shadowy than these, 
In the dim twilight half revealed ; 
Phoenician galleys on the seas, 
The Roman camps like hives of bees, 
The Goth uplifting from his knees 
Pelayo on his shield. 

It was these memories perchance, 
From annals of remotest eld. 

That lent the colors of romance 

To every trivial circumstance, 

And changed the form and countenance 
Of all that I beheld. 

Old towns, whose history lies hid 
In monkish chronicle or rhyme, - 

Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, 

Zamora and Yalladolid, 

Toledo, built and walled amid 
The wars of Wamba's time ; 

The long, straight line of the high- 
way. 

The distant town that seems so near, 
The peasants in the fields, that stay 
Their toil to cross themselves and pray. 
When from the belfry at midday 

The Angelus they hear ; 

White crosses in the mountain pass. 

Mules gay with tassels, the loud din 
Of muleteers, the tethered ass 
That crops the dusty wayside gi-ass, 
And cavaliers with spurs of brass 
Alighting at the inn ; 

White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, 
White cities slumbering by the sea. 

White sunshine flooding square and 
street. 

Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet 

The river-beds are dry with heat, — 
All was a dream to me. 

Yet something sombre and severe 
O'er the enchanted landscape reigned ; 

A terror in the atmosphere 

As if King Philip listened near, 

Or Torquemada, the austere, 
His ghostly sway maintained. 

The softer Andalusian skies 

Dispelled the sadness and the gloom ; 
There Cadiz by the seaside lies. 
And Seville's orange-orchards rise, 
Making the land a paradise 

Of beauty and of bloom. 



There Cordova is hidden among 

The palm, the olive, and the vine ; 
Gem of the South, by poets sung, 
And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung 
As lamps the bells that once had rung 
At Compostella's shrine. 

But over all the rest supreme. 
The star of stars, the cynosure, 

The artist's and the poet's theme, 

The young man's vision, the old man'i 
dream, — 

Granada by its winding stream, 
The city of the Moor ! 

And there the Alhambra still recalls 

Aladdin's palace of delight : 

Allah il Allah ! through its halls 

Whispers the fountain as it falls, 

The Darro darts beneath its walls, 

The hills with snow are white. 

Ah )^es, the hills are white with snow, 
And cold with blasts that bite and 
freeze ; 
But in the happy vale below 
The orange and pomegranate grow. 
And wafts of air toss to and fro 
The blossoming almond-trees. 

The Vega cleft by the Xenil, 

The fascination and allure 
Of the sweet landscape chains the will •, 
The traveller lingers on the hill, 
His parted lips are breathing still 

The last sigh of the Moor. 

How like a ruin overgrown 

AVithflowersthathide the rents of time, 
Stands now the Past that I have known, 
Castles in Spain, not built of stone 
But of white summer clouds, and blown 

Into this little mist of rhyme ! 



VITTORIA COLONNA. 

ViTTORiA CoLONNA, Oil the death of her hus- 
band, the Marchese di Pescaia, retired to hei 
castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there wrote the 
Ode upon his death, wliich gained her the title 
of Divine. 

Once more, once more, Inarime, 
I see thy purple hills ! — once more 

I hear the billows of the bay 

Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. 



THE EEVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 



ii) 



Higli o'er the sea-surge and the sands, 
Like a great galleon wrecked and 
cast 

Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, 
A mouldering landmark of the Past. 

Upon its terrace-walk I see 
A phantom gliding to and fro ; 

It is Colonna, — it is she 
Who lived and loved so long ago. 

Pescara's beautiful young Avife, 
The type of perfect womanhood, 

Whose life was love, the life of life, 
That time and change and death with- 
stood. 

For death, that breaks the marriage 
band 
In others, only closer pressed 
The wedding-ring upon her hand 

And closer locked and barred her 
breast. 

She knew the life-long martyrdom. 
The weariness, the endless pain 

Of waiting for some one to come 
AVho nevermore would come again. 

The shadows of the chestnut-trees, 
The odor of the orange blooms. 

The song of birds, and, more than 
these, 
The silence of deserted rooms ; 

The respiration of the sea. 

The soft caresses of the air. 
All things in nature seemed to be 

But ministers of her despair ; 

Till the o'erburdened heart, so long 
Imprisoned in itself, found vent 

And voice in one impassioned song 
Of inconsolable lament. 

Tlien as the sun, though hidden from 
sight. 
Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, 
Her life was interfused with light, 
From realms that, though unseen, 
exist. 

Inarime ! Inarime ! 

Thy castle on the crags above 
In dust shall crumble and decay, 

But not the memory of her love. 



THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN- 
THE-FACE. 

In that desolate land and lone. 
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone 

Roar down their mountain path. 
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 
Muttered their woes and griefs 

And the menace of their wrath. 

"Revenge !" cried Rain-in-the-Face, 
' ' Revenge upon all the race 

Of the White Chief with yellow hair ! ' 
And the mountains dark and high 
From their crags re-echoed the cry 

Of his anger and despair. 

In the meadow, spreading wide 
By woodland and riverside 

The Indian village stood ; 
All was silent as a dream, 
Save the rushing of the stream 

And the blue-jay in the wood. 

In his war paint and his beads, 
Like a bison among the reeds. 

In ambush the Sitting Bull 
Lay with three thousand braves 
Crouched in the clefts and caves. 

Savage, unmerciful ! 

Into the fatal snare 

The White Chief with yellow bail 

And his three hundred men 
Dashed headlong, sword in hand ; 
But of that gallant band 

Not one returned again. 

The sudden darkness of death 
Overwhelmed them like the breath 

And smoke of a furnace fire: 
By the river's bank, and between 
The rocks of the ravine, 

They lay in their bloody attire. 

But the foemen fled in the night, 
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight, 

Uplifted high in air 
As a ghastly trophy, bore 
The brave heart, that beat no more. 

Of the White Chief with yellow htUi 

Whose was the right and the wrong ? 
Sing it, funeral song, 

With a voice that is full of tears, 
And say that our broken faith 
Wrought all this ruin and scathe, 

In the Year of a Hundred Years. 



376 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



TO THE RIVER YVETTE. 

LOVELY river of Yvette ! 

darling river ! like a bride, 
Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, 

Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. 

Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, 
See and salute thee on thy way, 

And, with a blessing and a prayer. 
Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. 

The valley of Chevi*euse in vain 

"Would hold thee in its fond embrace ; 

Thou glidest from its arms again 
And hurriest on with swifter pace. 

Thou wilt not stav ; with restless feet 
Pursuing still thine onward flight. 

Thou goest as one in haste to meet 
Her sole desire, her heart's delight. 

lovely river of Yvette ! 

darling stream ! on balanced wings 
The wood-birds sang the chansonnette 

That here a wandering poet sings. 



THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE. 

CoMBiEN faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour 
faire un gant de cette grandeur ? A play upon 
the words gant, a glove, and Gancl^ the French 
for Ghent. 

On St. Bavon's tower, commanding 

Half of Flanders, his domain, 
Charles the Emperor once was standing. 
While beneath him on the lauding 
Stood Duke Alva and his train. 

Like a print in books of fables. 

Or a model made for show, 
With its pointed roofs and gables. 
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, 

Lay the city far below. 

Through its squares and streets and alleys 

Poured the populace of Ghent; 
As a routed army rallies. 
Or as rivers run through valleys. 
Hurrying to their homes they went. 

*' N"est of Lutheran misbelievers ! " 

Cried Duke Alva as he gazed ; 
" Haunt of traitors and deceivers, 
Stronghold of insurgent weavers. 
Let it to the ground be razed ! " 



On the Emperor's cap the feather 

Nods, as laughing he replies: 
' ' How many skins of Spanish leather, 
Think you, would, if stitched togethei, 
Make a glove of such a size ? " 



A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH 

FLEET. 

OCTOBER, 1746. 
Mr. Thomas Prince loquitur^ 

A FLEET with flags arrayed 

Sailed from the port of Brest, 
And the Admiral's ship displayed 

The signal ; " Steer southwest.'' 
For this Admiral D'Anville 

Had sworn by cross and crown 
To ravage with fire and steel 

Our helpless Boston Town. 

There were rumors in the street, 

In the houses there was fear 
Of the coming of the fleet, 

And the danger hovering near. 
And while from mouth to mouth 

Spread the tidings of dismay, 
I stood in the Old South, 

Saying humbly : " Let us pray ! 

" Lord ! we would not advise ; 

But if in thy Providence 
A tempest should arise 

To drive the French Fleet hence, 
And scatter it far and wide. 

Or sink it in the sea, 
We should be satisfied, 

And thine the glory be. " 

This was the prayer 1 made, 

For my soul was all on flame, 
And even as I prayed 

The answering tempest came ; 
It came with a mighty power, 

Shaking the windows and walls, 
And tolling the bell in the tovv^r. 

As it tolls at funerals. 

The lightning suddenly 

Unsheathed its flaming sword. 
And I cried : "Stand still, and see 

The salvation of the Lord ! " 
The heavens were black with cloud, 

The sea was white with hail. 
And ever more fierce and loud 

Blew the October gale. 



THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. 



Ml 



The fleet it overtook, 

And the broad sails in the van 
Like the tents of Cushan shook, 

Or the curtains of Midian. 
Down on the reeling decks 

Crashed the o'erwhelming seas ; 
Ah, never were there wrecks 

So pitiful as these ! 

Like a potter's vessel broke 

The great ships of the line ; 
riiey were carried away as a smoke, 

Or sank like lead in the brine. 
Lord ! before thy path 

They vanished and ceased to be, 
When thou didst walk in wrath 

With thine horses through the sea ! 



THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. 

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet. 
His chestnut steed with four white feet, 

Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, 
Son of the road and bandit chief, 
Seeking refuge and relief. 

Up the mountain pathway flew. 

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, 
Never yet could any steed 

Reach the dust-cloud in his course. 
More than maiden, more than wife. 
More than gold and next to life 

Roushan the Robber loved his horse. 

In the land that lies beyond 
Erzeroum and Trebizond, 

Garden-girt his fortress stood ; 
Plundered khan, or caravan 
Journeying north from Koordistan, 

Gave him wealth and wine and food. 

Seven hundred and fourscore 
Men at arms his livery wore, 

Did his bidding night and day. 
Now, through regions all unknown. 
He was wandering, lost, alone, 

Seeking without guide his way. 

Suddenly the pathway ends. 
Sheer the precipice descends, 

Loud the torrent roars unseen ; 
Thirty feet from side to side 
Yawns the chasm ; on air must ri<fle 

He who crosses this ravine 

Following close in his pursuit, 
d.t the precipice's foot, 



Reyhan the Arab of Orfah 
Halted with his hundred men. 
Shouting upward from the glen, 

" La Illah ilia Allah ! " 

Gently Roushan Beg caressed 
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast j 

Kissed him upon both his eyes ; 
Sang to him in liis wild way, 
As upon the topmost spray 

Sings a bird before it flies. 

"0 my Kyrat, my steed, 
Round and slender as a reed. 

Carry me this peril through ! 
Satin housings shall be thine, 
Shoes of gold, Kyrat mine, 

thou soul of Kurroglou ! 

' ' Soft thy skin as silken skein, 
Soft as woman's hair thy mane. 

Tender are thine eyes and true ; 
All thy hoofs like ivory shine, 
Polished bright ; 0, life of mine. 

Leap, and rescue Kurroglou ! " 

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, 
Drew together his four white feet, 

Paused a moment on the verge, 
Measured with his eye the space, 
And into the air's embrace 

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. 

As the ocean surge o'er sand 
Bears a swimmer safe to land, 

Kyrat safe his rider bore ; 
Rattling down the deep abyss 
Fragments of the precipice 

Rolled like pebbles on a shore. 

Roushan's tasselled cap of red 
Trembled not upon liis head. 

Careless sat he and upright ; 
Neither hand nor bridle shook, 
Nor his head he turned to look, 

As he galloped out of sight. 

Flash of harness in the air. 
Seen a moment like the glare 

Of a sword drawn from its sheath 
Thus the phantom horseman passed. 
And the shadow that he cast 

Leaped the cataract underneath. 

Reyhan the Arab held his breath 
While this vision of life and death 
Passed above him. " AUahu ! " 



378 



BIRDS 0^ PASSAGE. 



Cried he. '* In all Koordistan 

Lives there not so brave a man 

As this Robber Kurroglou ! " 



HAROUN AL RASCHID. 

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read 
A book wherein the poet said : — 

** Where are the kings, and where the rest 
Of those who once the world 



**They 're goiie with all their pomp and 

show, 
They 're gone the way that thou shalt go. 

'* thou who choosest for thy share 
The world, and what the world calls fair, 

*' Take all that it can give or lend. 
But know that death is at the end ! " 

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head : 
Tears fell upon the page he read. 



KING TRISANKU. 

ViswAMiTEA the Magician, 
By his spells and incantations, 

Up to Indra's realms elysian 

Raised Trisanku, king of nations. 

Indra and the gods offended 

Hurled him downward, and descending 
In the air he hung suspended, 

With these equal powers contending. 

Thus by aspirations lifted. 

By misgivings downward driven, | 

Human hearts are tossed and drifted 

Midway between earth and heaven. 



A WRAITH IN THE MIST. 

"Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I 
came to live here." — Boswell's Johnson. 

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 
Who is it that walks by the shore, 

So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, 
So brave with his targe and claymore ? 

His form is the form of a giant, 

But his face w^ears an aspect of pain ; 

Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth i 
Can this be Sir Allan McLean ? 



Ah, no ! It is only the Rambler, 

The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, 
And who says, were he Laird of Inchken 
neth, 
He would wall himself round with ? 
fort. 



THE THREE KINGS. 

Three Kings came riding from far away, 

Melchior and Caspar and Baltasar ; 
Three Wise Men out of the East were they^ 
And they travelled by night and they slept 
by day, 
For their guide was a beautiful, won« 
derful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, 

That all the other stars of the sky 
Became a white mist in the atmosphere, 
And by this they knew that the coming 
was near 
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle- 
bows. 
Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; 
Theirrobeswere of crimson silk with rows 
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, 
Their turbans like blossoming almond- 
trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the 
West, 
Through the dusk of night, over hill 
and dell. 

And sometimes they nodded with beard 
on breast, 

And sometimes talked, as they paused to 
rest. 
With the people they met at some way- 
side well. 



* * Of the child that is born , " said Baltasar, 
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the 
news ; 
For we in the East have seen his star. 
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far. 
To find and worship the King of the 
Jews." 

And the people answered, "You ask in 
vain ; 
We know of no king but Herod the 
Great ! " 



THfi WHITE CZAR. 



379 



They thought the AVise Men were men 

insane, 
As they spurred their horses across the 

plain, 
Like riders in haste, and who cannot 

wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem, 
Herod the Great, who had heard this 
thing, 
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned 

them ; 
And said, ' ' Go down unto Bethlehem, 
And bring me tidings of this newking." 

So they rode away ; av^ the star stood 
still, 
The only one in the gray of morn ; 
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own 

free will. 
Right over Bethlehem on the hill. 
The city of David where Christ was 
born. 

And the Three Kings rode through the 
gate and the guard. 
Through the silent street, till their 
horses turned 
And neighed as they entered the great 

inn-yard ; 
But the windows were closed, and the 
doors were barred, 
And only a light in the stable burned. 

A.nd cradled there in the scented hay, 
In the air made sweet by the breath of 
kine. 
The little child in the manger lay, 
The child, that would be king one day 
Of a kingdom not human but divine. 

His mother Mary of Nazareth 

Sat watching beside his place of rest, 
Watching the even flow of his breath. 
For the joy of life and the terror of 
death 
Were mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet : 

The gold was their tribute to a King, 
The frankincense, with its odor sweet, 
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, 
The myrrh for the body's burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed 
her head. 
And sat as still as a statue of stone ; 



Her heart was troubled yet comforted, 
Remembering what the Angel had said 
Of an endless reign and of David's 
throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate. 

With a clatter of hoofs in proud array ; 

But they went not back to Herod the 

Great, 
For they knew his malice and feared his 
hate. 
And returned to their homes by an- 
other way. 



SONG. 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
Home-keeping hearts are happiest. 
For those that wander they know not 

where 
Are full of trouble and full of care ; 
To stay at home is best. 

Weary and homesick and distressed, 
They wander east, they wander west. 
And are baffled and beaten and blown 

about 
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; 
To stay at home is best. 

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
The bird is safest in its nest ; 
O'er all that flutter their wings and fly 
A hawk is hovering in the sky ; 
To stay at home is best. 



THE WHITE CZAR. 

The White Czar is Peter the Great. Baty- 
ushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, 
are titles the Russian people are fond of giving 
to the Czar in their popular songs. 

Dost thou see on the rampart's height 
That wreath of mist, in the light 
Of the midnight moon ? 0, hist I 
It is not a wreath of mist ; 
It is the Czar, the White Czaf , 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 

He has heard, among the dead, 
The artillery roll o'erhead ; 
The drums and the tramp of feet 
Of his soldiery in the street ; 
He is awake ! the White Czar, 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 



380 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



He has heard in the grave the cries 
Of his people : "Awake ! arise ! " 
He has rent the gold brocade 
Whereof his shroud was made ; 
He is risen ! the White Czar, 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 

From the Volga and the Don 
He has led his armies on, 
Over river and morass, 
Over desert and mountain pass ; 
The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 

He looks from the mountain-chain _ 
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain 
The continents ; his hand 
Points southward o'er the land 
Of Roumili ! Czar, 

Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 

And the words hreak from his lips : 
" I am the builder of ships. 
And my ships shall sail these seas 
To the Pillars of Hercules ! 
I say it ; the White Czar, 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 



** The Bosphorns shall be free ; 
It shall make room for me ; 
And the gates of its water-streets 
Be unbarred before my fleets. 
I say it ; the White Czar, 
Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 

"And the Christian shall no more 
Be crushed, as heretofore, 
Beneath thine iron rule, 

Sultan of Istamboul ! 

1 swear it ; I the Czar, 

Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 



DELIA. 

Sweet as the tender fragrance that sur. 

vives, 
When martyred flowers breathe out their 

little lives, 
Sweet as a song that once consoled our 

pain. 
But never wdll be sung to us again. 
Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of 

rest 
Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling ; it 

is best. 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



PART SECOND. 



NATURE. 



As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 
Leads by the hand her little child to 

bed, 
Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
And leave his broken playthings on the 

floor. 
Still gazing at them through the open 

door, 
Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
By promises of others in their stead, 
Which, though more splendid, may 

not please him more ; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes away 
Our playthings one by one, and by the 

hand 

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay. 

Being too full of sleep to understand 

How far the unknown transcends the 

what we know. 



IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TAR- 
RYTOWN. 

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died 
In the bright Indian Summer of his 

'fame ! 
A simple stone, with but a date and 

name, 
Marks his secluded resting-place be- 
side 
The river that he loved and glorified. 
Here in the autumn of his days he 

came. 
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame 
With tints that brightened and were 
multiplied. 
How sweet a life was his ; how sweet 9 
death ! 
Living, to wing with mirth the weary 

hours. 
Or with romantic tales the heart to 
cheer ; 



PARKER CLEAVELAND. 



381 



Dying, to leave a memory like the breath 
Of summers full of sunshine and of 

showers, 
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. 



ELIOT'S OAK. 

Thou ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves 

are. loud 

With sounds of unintelligible speech, 

Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach. 

Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd ; 

With some mysterious gift of tongues 

endowed, 

Thou speakest a different dialect to 

each ; 
To me a language that no man can teach, 
Of a lost race, long vanished like a 
cloud. 
Forunderneath thy shade, in days remote, 
Seated like Abraham at eventide 
Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the un- 
known 
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote 
His Bible in a language that hath died 
And is forgotten, save by thee alone. 



THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES. 

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and 
face, 

Came from their convent on the shining 
heights 

Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, 
To dwell among the people at its base. 
Then seemed the world to change. All 
time and space. 

Splendor of cloudless days and starry 
nights. 

And men and manners, and all sounds 
and sights. 

Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. 
Proud were these sisters, but were not too 
proud 

To teach in schools of little country 
towns 

Science and song, and all the arts that 
please ; 
So that while housewives span, and 
farmers ploughed. 

Their comely daughters, clad in home- 
spun gowns. 

Learned the sweet songs of the Pier- 
ides. 



VENICE. 

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy 

nest 
So wonderfully built among the reeds 
Of the lagoon, that fences thee and 

feeds, 
As saycth thy old historian and thy 

guest ! 
White water-lily, cradled and caressed 
By ocean streams, and from the silt 

and weeds 
Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, 
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown 

and crest ! 
White phantom city, whose untrodden 

streets 
Are rivers, and whose pavements are 

the shifting 
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky ; 
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets 
Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud up- 
lifting 
In air their unsubstantial masonry. 



THE POETS. 

YE dead Poets, who are living still 
Immortal in your verse, though life be 

fled. 
And ye, living Poets, who are dead 
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill. 
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 
With drops of anguish falling fast and 

red 
From the sharp crown of thorns upon 

your head. 
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil ? 
Yes ; for the gift and ministry of Song 
Have something in them so divinely 

sweet, 
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong ; 
Not in the clamor of the crowded street, 
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the 

throng. 
But in ourselves, are triumph and 

defeat. 



PARKER CLEAVELAND. 

WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN 
THE SUMMER OF 1875. 

Among the many lives that I have known, 
None I remember more serene and 
sweet. 



382 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



More rounded in itself and more com- 
plete, 

Than his, who lies beneath this funeral 
stone. 
These pines, that murmur in low mono- 
tone, 

These walks frequented by scholastic 
feet, 

Were all his world ; but in this calm 
retreat 

For him the Teacher's chair became 
a throne. 
With fond affection memory loves to dwell 

On the old days, when his example 
made 

A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen ; 
And now, amid the groves he loved so well 

That naught could lure him from their 
grateful shade. 

He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for 
God hath said, Amen ! 



THE HARVEST MOON. 

It is the Harvest Moon ! On gilded vanes 
And roofs of villages, on woodland 

crests 
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests 
Deserted, on the curtained window- 
panes 
Of rooms where children sleep, on country 
lanes 
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor 

rests ! 
Gone are the birds that were our sum- 
mer guests, 
With the last sheaves return the labor- 
ing wains ! 
All things are symbols : the external 
shows 
Of Nature have their image in the mind. 
As flowers and fruits and falling of the 
leaves ; 
The song-birds leave us at the summer's 
close. 
Only the empty nests are left behind, 
And pipings of the quail among the 
sheaves. 



TO THE RIVER RHONE. 

Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower 
In chambers purple with the Alpine 
glow, 



Wrapped in the spotless ermine of tha 

snow 
And rocked by tempests ! — at the 

appointed hour 
Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a 

tower. 
With clang and clink of harness dost 

thou go 
To meet thy vassal torrents, that be- 
low 
Rush to receive thee and obey thj 

power. 
And now thou movest in triumphal 

march, 
A king among the rivers ! On thy 

way 
A hundred towns await and welcome 

thee; 
Bridges uplift for thee the stately 

arch, 
Vineyards encircle thee with garlands 

gay, 

And fleets attend thy progress to the 
sea! 



THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLI- 

NOS. 

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Three Silences there are : the first of 

speech. 
The second of desire, the third of 

thought ; 
This is the lore a Spanish monk, dis- 
traught 
With dreams and visions, was the first 

to teach. 
These Silences, commingling each with 

each, 
Made up the perfect Silence, that he 

sought 
And prayed for, and wherein at times 

he caught 
Mysterious sounds from realms beyond 

our reach. 
thou, whose daily life anticipates 
The life to come, and in whose thought 

and word 
The spiritual world preponderates, 
Hermit of Amesbury ! thou too hast 

heard 
Voices and melodies from beyond tha 

gates, 
And speakest only when thy soul is 

stirred I 



BOSTON. 



383 



THE TWO RIVERS. 
I. 

Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves 

round ; 
So slowly that no human eye hath 

power 
To see it move ! Slowly in shine or 

shower 
The painted ship above it, homeward 

bound, 
^ils, bul seems motionless, as if aground ; 
Yet both arrive at last ; and in his tower 
The slumberous watchman wakes and 

strikes the hour, 
A mellow, measured, melancholy 

sound. 
Midnight ! the outpost of advancing day ! 
The frontier town and citadel of night! 
The watershed of Time, from which 

the streams 
Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their 

way, 
One to the land of promise and of light, 
One to the land of darkness and of 

dreams ! 

II. 

River of Yesterday, with current swift 
Through chasms descending, and soon 

lost to sight, 
I do not care to follow in their flight 
The faded leaves, that on thy bosom 

drift ! 

River of To-morrow, I uplift 

Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the 
night 

"Wanes into morning, and the dawn- 
ing light 

Broadens, and all the shadows fade 
and shift ! 

1 follow, follow, where thy waters run 
Through unfrequented, unfamiliar 

fields. 
Fragrant with flowers and musical 

with song ; 
Bull follow, follow ; sure to meet the sun. 
And confident, that what the future 

yields 
"Will be the right, unless myself be 

wrong. 

III. 

5ret not in vain, River of Yesterday, 
Through chasms of darkness to the 
(ieep descending. 



I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and 

blending 
Thy voice with other voices far away. 
I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst 

not stay. 
But turbulent, and with thyself con- 
tending. 
And torrent-like thy force on pebbles 

spending. 
Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay„ 
Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush 

of wings. 
Regrets and recollections of things past, 
With hints and prophecies of things 

to be. 
And inspirations, which, could they be 

things. 
And stay with us, and we could hold 

them fast, 
"Were our good angels, — these I owe 

to thee. 

IV. 

And thou, River of To-morrow, flowing 

Between thy narrow adamantine walls. 

But beautiful, and white with water- 
falls. 

And. wreaths of mist, like hands the 
pathway showing ; 
I hear the trumpets of the morning blow- 
ing. 

I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and 
calls, 

And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's 
halls. 

Mysterious phantoms, coming, beck- 
oning, going ! 
It is the mystery of the unknown 

That fascinates us ; we are children 
still, 

"Wayward and wistful ; with one hand 
we cling 
To the familiar things we call our own. 

And with the other, resolute of will, 

Grope in the dark for what the day 
will bring. 



BOSTON. 

St. Botolph's Town ! Hither across 
the plains 
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb au- 
stere. 
There came a Saxon monk, and founded 
here 



384 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, 
So that thereof no vestige now remains ; 

Only a name, that, spoken loud and 
clear. 

And echoed in another hemisphere. 

Survives the sculptured walls and 
painted panes. 
St. Botolph's Town ! Far over leagues 
of land 

And leagues of sea looks forth its no- 
ble tower. 

And far around the chiming bells are 
heard ; 
So may that sacred name forever stand 

A landmark, and a symbol of the power, 

That lies concentred in a single word. 



ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE? 

I STAND beneath the tree, whose branches 
shade 

Thy western window, Chapel of St. 
John ! 

And hear its leaves repeat their benison 

On him, whose hand thy stones me- 
morial laid ; 
Then I remember one of whom was said 

In the world's darkest hour, " Behold 
thy son ! " 

And see him living still, and wander- 
ing on 

And waiting for the advent long de- 
layed. 
Not only tongues of the apostles teach 

Lessons of love and light, but these 
expanding 

And sheltering boughs with all their 
leaves implore, 
And say in language clear as human 
speech, 

** The peace of God, that passeth un- 
derstanding. 

Be and abide with you forevermore ! " 



• MOODS. 

THAT a Song would sing itself to me 
Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart 
Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art, 
Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt 
sea. 
With just enough of bitterness to be 
A medicine to this sluggish mood, and 
start 



The life-blood in my veins, and so 

impart 
Healing and help in this dull lethargy ! 
Alas ! not always doth the breath of song 
Breathe on us. It is like the wind 

that bloweth 
At its own will, not ours, nor tarries 

long; 
We hear the sound thereof, but no man 

knoweth 
From whence it comes, so sudden and 

SAvift and strong, 
Nor whither in its wayward course it 

goeth. 



WOODSTOCK PARK. 

Here in a little rustic hermitage 
Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the 

Great, 
Postponed the cares of king-craft to 

translate 
The Consolations of the Roman sage. 
Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age 
Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon 

or late 
The venturous hand that strives to 

imitate 
Vanquished must fall on the unfin- 
ished page. 
Two kings were they, who ruled by right 

divine, 
And both supreme ; one in the realm 

of Truth, 
One in the realm of Fiction and of 

Song. 
What prince hereditary of their line. 
Uprising in the strength and flush of 

youth, 
Their glory shall inherit and prolong ? 



THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT 
WILNA. 

A PHOTOGRAPH. 

Sweet faces, that from pictured case- 
ments lean 
As from a castle window, looking down 
On some gay pageant passing through 

a town. 
Yourselves the fairest figures in the 
scene ; 
With what a gentle grace, with what 
serene 



THE BROKEN OAR. 



385 



Unconsciousness ye wear the triple 
crown 

Of youth and beauty and the fair re- 
nown 

Of a' great name, that ne'er hath tar- 
nished been ! 
From your soft eyes, so innocent^and 
sv/eet, 

Four spirits, sweet and innocent as 
they. 

Gaze on the worUl below, the sky above; 
Hark ! there is some one singing in the 
street ; 

"Faith, Hope, and Love ! these three," 
he seems to say ; 
** These three ; and greatest of the three 
is Love." 



HOLIDAYS. 

The holiest of all holidays are those 
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart ; 
The secret anniversaries of the heart, 
"When the full river of feeling over- 
flows ; — 
The happy days unclouded to their close ; 
The sudden joys that out of darkness 

start 
As flames from ashes ; swift desires 

that dart 
Like swallows singing down each wind 
that blows ! ' 
White as the gleam of a receding sail. 
White as a cloud that floats and fades 

in air, 
White as the whitest lily on a stream. 
These tender memories are ; — a Fairy 
Tale 
Of some enchanted land we know not 

where. 
But lovely as a landscape in a dream. 



WAPENTAKE. 

TO ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with 
mine ; 
Not as a knight, who on the listed field 



Of tourney touched his adversary's 
shield 

In token of defiance, but in sign 
Of homage to the mastery, which is 
thine, 

In English song ; nor will 1 keep 
concealed. 

And voiceless as a rivulet frost-con- 
gealed, 

i\Iy admiration for thy verse divine. 
Not of the howling dervishes of song, 

Who craze the brain with their de- 
lirious dance, 

Art thou, sweet historian of the 
heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves be- 
long. 

To thee our love and our allegiance, 

For thy allegiance to the poet's art. 



THE BROKEN OAR. 

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand 
A poet wandered with his book and 

pen, 
Seeking some final word, some sweet 

Amen, 
Wherewith to close the volume in his 

hand. 
The billows rolled and plunged upon the 

sand. 
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond 

his ken. 
And from the parting cloud-rack itcT>, 

and then 
Flashed the red sunset over sea and 

land. 
Then by the billows at his feet was 

tossed 
A broken oar ; and carved thereon he 

read, 
" Oft was I weary, when I toiled at 

thee " ; 
And like a man, who findeth what was 

lost. 
He wrote the words, then lifted up his 

head, 
And flung his useless pen into the 



386 



TRANSLATIONS. 



TRANSLATIONS, 



VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE. 

MELIBCEUS. 

TiTYRUS, thou in the shade of a spread- 
ing beech-tree reclining, 

Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse 
of the Avoodlands. 

AYe our country's bounds and pleasant 
pastures relinquish, 

We our country fly ; thou, Tityrus, 
stretched in tlie shadow, 

Teachest the woods to resound with the 
name of the fair Amaryllis, 

TITYliUS. 

]\Ieliboeus, a god for us this leisure 

created, 
For he will be unto me a god forever ; 

his altar 
Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from 

our sheepfolds. 
He, my heifers to wander at large, and 

myself, as thou seest, 
On my rustic reed to play what I will, 

hath permitted. 

MELIBCEUS. 

Truly I envy not, I marvel rather ; on 

all sides 
In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, 

my goats I am driving, 
Heartsick, further away ; this one scarce, 

Tityrus, lead I ; 
For having here yeaned twins just now 

among the dense hazels, 
Hope of the flock, ah me ! on the naked 

flint she hath left them. 
Often this evil to me, if my mind had 

not been insensate, 
Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, 

as now I remember ; 
Often the sinister crow from the hollow 

ilex predicted. 
Nevertheless, who this god may be, 

Tityrus, tell me. 



Meliboeus, the city that they call 

Rome, I imagined, 
Foolish I ! to be like this of ours, where 

often we shepherds 



Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the 

delicate ottspring. 
Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, 

and kids to their mothers. 
Thus to compare great things with small 

had I been accustomed. 
But this among other cities its head as 

far hath exalted 
As the cypresses do among the lissome 

viburnums. 

MELIBCEUS. 

And what so great occasion of seeing 
Rome hath possessed thee ? 

TITYRUS. 

Liberty, which, though late, looked upon 

me in my inertness, 
After the time when my beard fell whiter 

from me in shaving, — 
Yet she looked upon me, and came to me 

after a long while. 
Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea 

hath left me. 
For I will even confess that while Galatea 

possessed me 
Neither care of my flock nor hope of lib- 
erty was there. 
Though from my wattled folds there 

went forth many a victim, 
And the unctuous cheese was j^ressed for 

the city ungrateful, 
Never did my right hancl return home 

heavy with money. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I have wondered why sad thou invok- 
cdst the gods, Amaryllis, 

And forwhom thou clidst sutler the apples 
to hang on the branches ! 

Tityrus hence was absent ! Thee, Tity- 
rus, even the pine-trees. 

Thee, the very fountains, the very copses 
were calling. 

TITYRUS. 

What could I do ? No power had I to 
escape from my bondage. 

Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize 
gods so propitious. 



OVID IN EXILE. 



387 



Here I beheld tliat youth, to whom each 
year, Meliboeus, 

During twice six days ascends the smoke 
of our altars. 

Here iirst gave he response to me solicit- 
ing iavor : 

**■ Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, 
and yoke up your bullocks." 

MELIBCEUS. 

Fortunate old man ! So then thy fields 

will be left thee, 
And large enough for thee, though naked 

stone and the mavish 
All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy 

rush may encompass. 
No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes 

shall endanger, 
Nor of the neighboring flock the dire 

contagion infect them. 
Fortunate old man ! Here among familiar 

rivers. 
And these sacred founts, shalt thou take 

the shadowy coolness. 
On this side, a hedge along the neighbor- 
ing cross-road. 
Where HybUean bees ever feed on the 

flower of the willow. 
Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep 

shall persuade thee. 
Yonder, beneath the high rock, the 

pruner shall sing to the breezes. 
Nor meanwhile shall thy heart's delight, 

the hoarse wood-pigeons. 
Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from 

aerial elm-trees. 

TITYRUS. 

Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed 
in the etlier. 

And the billows leave the fishes bare on 
the sea-shore, 

Sooner, the border-lands of both over- 
passed, shall the exiled 

Parthian drink of the Soane, or the Ger- 
man drink of the Tigris, 

Than the face cf him shall glide away 
from my bosom ! 

MELIBCEUS. 

But we hence shall go, a part to the 

thirsty A fries, 
Part to Scythia come, and the rapid 

Cretan Oaxes, 
And to the Britons from all the universe 

utterly sundered. 



Ah, shall 1 ever, a long time hence, the 
bounds of my country 

And the roof of my lowly cottage cov- 
ered with greensward 

Seeing, with wonder behold, — my king- 
doms, a handful of wheat-ears ! 

Shall an impious soldier possess these 
lands newly cultured. 

And these fields of corn a barbarian ? 
Lo, whither discord 

Us wretched people hath brought ! for 
whom our fields we liave planted ! 

Graft, Melibceus, thy pear-trees now, put 
in order thy vineyards. 

Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so 
happy aforetime. 

Never again henceforth outstretched in 
my verdurous cavern 

Shall I behokl you afar from the bushy 
precipice hanging. 

Songs no more shall I sing ; not with me, 
ye goats, as your shepherd. 

Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or 
bloomin" laburnum. 



Nevertheless, this night together with 

me canst thou rest thee 
Here on the verdant leaves ; for us there 

are mellowing apples, 
Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted 

cream in abundance ; 
And the high roofs now of the villages 

smoke in the distance. 
And from the lofty mountains are falling 

larger the shadows. 



OVJD IN EXILE, 

AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE 
MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE. 

Tristia, Book III., Elegy X. 

Should any one there in Rome remem- 
ber Ovid the exile. 
And, without me, my name still in the 
city survive ; 

Tell him that under stars which never set 
in the ocean 
I am existing still, here in a barbarous 
land. 

Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, 
and the Bessi and Getne ; 
Names how unworthy to be sung by a 
genius like mine ! 



38a 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Yet when the air i^ warm, intervening 
Ister defends us : 
Kc, as he flows, repels inroads of war 
witli his waves. 

But when the dismal winter reveals its 
hideous aspect, 
AVhenall the earth becomes white with 
a marble-like frost ; 

And v/hen Boreas is loosed, and the snow 
hurled under Arcturus, 
Then these nations, in sooth, shudder 
and shiver with cold. 

Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun 
nor the rain can dissolve it ; 
Boreas hardens it still, makes it for- 
ever remain. 

Hence, ere the first has melted away, 
another succeeds it. 
And two years it is wont, in many 
places, to lie. 

And so great is the power of the North- 
wind awakened, it levels 
Lofty towers with the ground, roofs 
uplifted bears off. 

W rapped in skins, and withtrousers sewed, 
they contend with the weather. 
And their faces alone of the whole 
body are seen. 

Often their tresses, when shaken, with 
pendent icicles tinkle. 
And their whitened beards shine with 
the gathering frost. 

Wines consolidate stand, preserving the 
form of the vessels ; 
No more draughts of wine, — pieces 
presented they drink. 

Why should I tell you how all the rivers 
are frozen and solid. 
And from out of the lake frangible 
water is dug ? 

Ister, — no narrower stream than the 
river that bears the papyrus, — 
Which through its many mouths min- 
gles iis waves with the deep ; 

Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its 
cerulean waters. 
Under a roof of ice, winding its way to 
the sea. 



There where ships have sailed, men go or 
foot ; and the billows. 
Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of 
horses indent. 

Over unwonted bridges, with water glid- 
ing beneath them. 
The Sarmatian steers drag their bar- 
barian carts. 

Scarcely shall I be believed ; yet wheii 
naught is gained by a falsehood. 
Absolute credence then should to a 
witness be given. 

I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice 
all compacted. 
And a slippery crust pressing its mo- 
tionless tides. 

'T is not enough to have seen, I have 
trodden this indurate ocean ; 
Dry shod passed my foot over its up- 
permost wave. 

If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this 
is, Leander ! 
Then thy death had not been charged 
as a crime to the Strait. 

Nor can the curved dolphins uplift them- 
selves from the water ; 
All their struggles to rise merciless 
winter prevents ; 

And though Boreas sound with roar of 
wings in commotion. 
In the lilockaded gulf never a wave 
will there be ; 

And the ships will stand hemmed in by 
the frost, as in marble, 
Nor will the oar have power through 
the stiff' waters to cleave. 

Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the 
fishes adhering, 
Yet notwithstanding this some of them 
still were alive. 

Hence, if the savage strength of omnipo- 
tent Boreas freezes 
Whether the salt-sea wave, whethei 
the refluent stream, — 

Straightway, — the Ister made level by 
arid blasts of tlie North-wind, —> 
Comes the barbaric foe borne on hii 
swift-footed steed i 



OVID IN EXILE. 



389 



Foe, that powerful made by his steed and 
his far-flying arrows, 
All the neighboring land void of in- 
habitants makes. 

Some take flight, and none being left to 
defend their possessions. 
Unprotected, their goods pillage and 
plunder become ; 

Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth 
of the country, 
And what riches beside indigent peas- 
ants possess. 



hands bound behind them, 
Looking backward in vain toward their 
Lares and lands. 

Others, transfixed with barbed arrows, in 
agony perish. 
For the swift arrow-heads all have in 
poison been dipped. 

What they cannot carry or lead away 
they demolish, 
And the hostile flames burn up the 
innocent cots. 

Even when there is peace, the fear of war 
is impending ; 
None, with the ploughshare pressed, 
furrows the soil any more. 

Either this region sees, or fears a foe that 
it sees not, 
And the sluggish land slumbers in utter 
neglect. 

No sweet grape lies hidden here in the 
shade of its vine-leaves, 
No fermenting must fills and o'erflows 
the deep vats. 

A-pples the region denies ; nor would 
Acontius have found here 
Aught upon which to write words for 
his mistress to read. 

Naked and barren plains without leaves 
or trees we behold here, — 
Places, alas ! unto which no happy 
man would repair. 

Since then this mighty orb lies open so 
wide upon all sides. 
Has this region been found only my 
prison to be ? 



Tristia, Book III., Elegy XII. 

Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and 
the year being ended, 
Winter Mreotian seems longer than ever 
before ; 

And the Ram that bore unsafely the 
burden of Helle, 
Now makes the hours of the day equal 
with those of the night. 

Now the boys and the laughing girls the 
violet gather, 
Which the fields bring forth, nobody 
sowing the seed. 

Now the meadows are blooming with 
flowers of various colors, 
And with untaught throats carol the 
garrulous birds. 

Now the swallow, to shun the crime of 
her merciless mother. 
Under the rafters builds cradles and 
dear little homes ; 

And the blade that lay hid, covered up in 
the furrows of Ceres, 
Now from the tepid ground raises its 
delicate head. 

Where there is ever a vine, the bud 
shoots forth from the tendrils. 
But from the Getic shore distant afar 
is the vine ! 

Where there is ever a tree, on the tree 
the branches are swelling, 
But from the Getic land distant afav 
is the tree ! 

Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to 
games in due order 
Give place the windy wars of the vocif- 
erous bar. 

Now they are riding the horses ; with 
light arms now they are playing. 
Now with the ball, and now round 
rolls the swift-flying hoop : 

Now, when the young athlete with flow- 
ing oil is anointed, 
He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, over- 
wearied, his limbs. 



390 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Thrives the stage ; and applause, with 
voices at variance, thunders. 
And the Theatres three for the three 
Forums resound. 

Four times happy is he, and times with- 
out number is happy. 
Who the city of Eome, uninterdicted, 
enjoys. 

But all I see is the snow in the vernal 
sunshine dissolving. 
And the waters no more delved from 
the indurate lake. 

Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before 
o'er the Ister 
Comes the Sarmatian hoor driving his 
stridulous cart. 

Hither ward, nevertheless, some keels 
already are steering, 
And on this Pontic shore alien vessels 
will be. 

Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, 
having saluted. 
Who he may be, 1 shall ask ; where- 
fore and whence he hath come. 

Strange indeed will it be, if he come not 
from regions adjacent. 
And incautious unless ploughing the 
neighboring sea. 

Barely a mariner over the deep from Italy 
passes. 
Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly 
of harbors devoid. 

Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether 
in Latin he speaketh, 
Surely on this account he the more 
welcome will be. 

Also perchance from the mouth of the 
Strait and the waters Propontic, 

■ Unto the steady South-wind, some one 
is spreading his sails. 

Whosoever he is, the news he can faith- 
fully tell me. 
Which may become a part and an ap- 
proach to the truth. 

He, I pray, may be able to tell me the 
triumphs of Caesar, 
Which he has heard of, and vows paid 
to the Latian Jove ; 



And that thy sorrowful head, Gennania, 
thou, tlie rebellious. 
Under the feet, at last, of the Great 
Captain hast laid. 

Whoso shall tell me these things, that 
not to have seen will afflict me, 
Forthwith unto my house welcomed as 
guest shall he be. 

Woe is me ! Is the house of Ovid in 
Scythian lands now ? 
And doth punishment now give me its 
place for a home ? 

G rant, ye gods, that Csesar make this not 
ray house and my homestead. 
But decree it to be only the inn of my 
l)ain. 



ON THE TEKRACE OF THE AIGA- 
LADES. 

FROM THE FKENCH OF M^RY. 

From this high portal, where upspringa 
The rose to touch our hands in play, 
We at a glance behold three things, — 
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. 

And the Sea says : My shipwrecks fear ; 
I drown my best friends in the deep ; 
And those who braved my tempests, here 
Among my sea-weeds lie asleep ! 

The Town says : I am filled .and fraught jy 
With tumult and with smoke and care ; . I 
My days with toil are overwrought. 
And in my nights I gasp for air. 

The Highway says : My wheel-tracks 

guide 
To the pale climates of the North ; 
Where my last milestone stands abide 
The people to their death gone forth. 

Here, in the shade, this life of ours. 
Full of delicious air, glides by 
Amid a multitude of flowers 
As countless as the stars on high ; 

These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil^ 
Bathed with an azure all divine. 
Where springs the tree that gives us oil, 
The grape that giveth us the wine ; 



FORSAKEN. 



391 



Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, 
Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, 
Wliere springtime of the He.sperides 
Begins, t3ut endetli nevermore ; 

Under these leafy vaults and walls. 
That unto gentle sleep persuade ; 
This rainbow of the waterfalls. 
Of mingled mist and sunshine made ; 

Upon these shores, where all invites, 
We live our languid life apart ; 
This air is that of life's delights. 
The festival of sense and heart ; 

This limpid space of time prolong. 
Forget to-morrow in to-day, 
And leave unto the passing throng 
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. 



TO MY BROOKLET. 



FROM THE FRENCH OF DUCIS. 



Hid in the covert of tlie wood ! 
Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng. 
Like thee I love the solitude. 

brooklet, let my sorrows past 
Lie all forgotten in their graves, 
Till in my thoughts remain at last 
Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves. 

The lily by thy margin waits ; — 
The nightingale, the marguerite ; 
In shadow here he meditates 
His nest, his love, his music sweet. 

Near thee the self-collected soul 
Knows naught of error or of crime ; 
Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, 
Transfoi-m his musings into rhyme. 

Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves. 
Pursuing still thy course, shall I 
Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, 
A.nd hear the lapwing's plaintive cry ? 



BARREGES. 

PROM THE FRENCH OF LEFRANC DE 
POMPIGNAN. 

I LEAVE you, ye cold mountain chains. 
Dwelling of warriors stark and frore ! 
Yon, may these eyes behold no more, 
Save on the horizon of our plains. 



Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views ! 
Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds ! 
Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, 
Impracticable avenues ! 

Ye torrents, that with might and main 
Break pathways through the rocky walls^ 
With your terrific waterfalls 
Fatigue no more my weary brain ! 

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, 
Arise, ye pictures of delight ! 
Ye brooks, that water in your flight 
The flowers and harvests of our farms ! 

You I perceive, ye meadows green, 
Where the Garonne the lowland fills, 
Not far from that long chain of hills. 
With intermingled vales between. 

Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so 

high, 
Methinks from my own hearth must come ; 
With speed, to that beloved home, 
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly ! 

And bear me thither, where the soul 
In quiet may itself possess, 
Where all things soothe the mind's dis- 
tress, 
Where all things teach me and console. 



FORSAKEN. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Something the heart must have to 
cherish, 

Must love and joy and sorrow learn. 
Something with passion clasp, or perish, 

And in itself to ashes burn. 

So to this child my heart is clinging, 
And its frank eyes, with look intense, 

Me from a world of sin are bringing 
Back to a world of innocence. 

Disdain must thou endure forever ; 

Strong may thy heart in danger be ! 
Thou shalt not fail ! but ah, be never 

False as thy father was to me. 

Never will I forsake thee, faithless, 
And thou thy mother ne'er foi*sake, 

Until her lips are white and breathless. 
Until in death her eyes shall break. 



392 



TRANSLATIONS. 



ALLAH. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF WAHLMANN. 

Allah gives light ir. darkness, 

Allah gives rest in pain, 
Cheeks that are white with weeping 

Allah paints red again. 



The flowers and the hlossoms wither, 
Years vanish with flying fleet ; 

But my heart will live on forever, 
That here in sadness heat. 

Gladly to Allah's dwelling 
Yonder would I take flight ; 

There will the darkness vanish, 
There will my eyes have sight. 



SEVEN SONNETS 



AND A CANZONE, FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 



[The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo as revised by his nephew 
Michael Angelo the Younger, and were made before the publication of the original text by 
Guasti.] 



I. 

THE ARTIST. 

Nothing the greatest artist can conceive 
That every jnarble block doth not 

confine 
Within itself ; and only its design 
The hand that follows intellect can 
achieve. 
The ill I flee, the good that I believe, 
In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, 
Thus hidden lie ; and so that death be 

mine 
Art, of desired success, doth me be- 
reave. 
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, 
Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, 
Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, 
If in thy heart both death and love find 
place 
At the same time, and if my humble 

brain, 
Burning, can nothing draw but death 
from thee. 



XL 
FIRE. 

NoTwithoutfire canany workman mould 
The iron to his preconceived design, 
Nor can the artist without fire refine 
And purify from all its dross the gohl ; 

Nor can i-evive the phoenix, we are told, 



Except by fire. Hence if such death 

be mine 
I hope to rise again with the divine. 
Whom death augments, and time can- 
not make old. 
sweet, sweet death ! fortunate fire 
that burns 
Within me still to renovate my days, 
Though I am almost numbered with 
the dead ! 
If by its nature unto heaven returns 
This element, me, kindled in its blaze. 
Will itbearupward whenmylife is fled. 



in. 

YOUTH AND AGE. 

(PiYE me back the days when loose and 

ft-ee 
To my blind passion were the curb and 

rein, 
give me back the angelic face again. 
With which all virtue buried seems 

to be ! 
give my panting footsteps back to me, 
That are in age so slow and fraught 

with pain, 
And fire and moisture in the heart and 

brain. 
If thou wouldst have me burn and 

weep for thee ! 
If it be true thou livest alone. Amor, 
On the sweet-bitter tears of human 

hearts, 



SEVEN SONNETS. 



393 



In an o}d man tnou canst not wake 

desire ; 
Souls that have almost reached the other 

shore 
Of a diviner love should feel the darts, 
And be as tinder to a holier fire. 



IV. 



OLD AGE. 

The course of my long life hath reached 

at last, 
In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea, 
The common harbor, where must ren- 
dered be 
Account of all the actions of the past. 
The impassioned phantasy, that, vague 

and vast, 
Made art an idol and a king to me. 
Was an illusion, and but vanity 
Were the desires that lured me and 

harassed. 
The dreams of love, that were so sweet 

of yore, 
What are they now, when two deaths 

may be mine, — 
One sure, and one forecasting its 

alarms ? 
Painting and sculpture satisfy no more 
The soul now turning to the Love 

Divine, 
That oped, to embrace us, on the cross 

its arms. 



TO VITTORIA COLONNA. 

Lady, how can it chance — yet this we 
see 
In long experience — that will longer 

last 
A living image carved from quarries 
vast 
Than its own maker, who dies presently ? 
Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be. 
And even Nature is by Art surpassed ; 
This know I, who to Art have given 

the past. 
But see that Time is breaking faith 
with me. 
Perhaps on both of us long life can I 
Either in color or in stone bestow, 
By now portraying each in look and 
mien : 



So that a thousand years after we die. 
How fair thou wast, and I how full of 

woe. 
And wherefore I so loved thee, may be 
seen. 



VI. 



TO VITTORIA COLONNA. 

When the prime mover of my many sighs 
Heaven took through death from out 

her earthly place, 

Nature, that never made so fair a face. 

Remained ashamed, and tears were in 

all eyes. 

fate, unheeding my impassioned cries ! 

hopes fallacious ! thou spirit of 

grace. 
Where art thou now ? Earth holds 
in its embrace 
- Thy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts 

the skies. 
Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay 
The rumor of thy virtuous renown. 
That Lethe's waters could not wash 
away ! 
A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken 
thee down. 
Speak of thee, nor to thee could 

Heaven convey. 
Except through death, a refuge and a 
crown. 



vn. 

DANTE. 

What should be said of him cannot be 
said ; 

By too great splendor is his name at- 
tended ; 

To blame is easier those who him of- 
fended. 

Than reach the faintest glory round 
him shed. 
This man descended to the doomed and 
dead 

For our instruction ; then to God as- 
cended ; 

Heaven opened wide to him its portals 
splendid. 

Who from his country's, closed against 
him, fled. 
Ungrateful land ! To its own prejudice 



394 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Nurse of his fortunes ; and this show- 

eth well, 
That the most perfect most of grief 

shall see. 
Among a thousand proofs let one suffice, 
That as his exile hath no parallel. 
Ne'er walked the earth a greater man 

than he. 



VIII. 

CANZONE. 

Ah me ! ah me ! when thinking of the 
years, 
The vanished years, alas, I do not find 



Among them all one day that was my 

own ! 
Fallacious hopes, desires of the un- 
known. 
Lamenting, loving, burning, and in 

tears 
(For human passions all have stirred 

my mind), 
Have held me, now I feel and know, 

confined 
Both from the true and good still far 

away. 
I perish day by day ; 
The sunshine fails, the shadows grow 

more dreary, . 

And I am near to fall, infirm and /^ 

weary. 



ULTIMA THULE, 



DEDICATION. 

TO G. W. G. 

With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas. 
We sailed for the Hesperides, 
The land where golden apples grow ; 
But that, ah ! that was long ago. 

How far, since then, the ocean streams 
Have swept us from that land of dreams, 
That land of fiction and of truth. 
The lost Atlantis of our youth ! 

Whither, ah, whither % Are not these 

The tempest-haunted Hebrides, 

Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers 

roar, 
And wreck and sea-weed line the shore ? 

Ultima Thule ! Utmost Isle ! 
Here in thy harbors for a while 
We lower our sails ; a while we rest 
From the unending, endless quest. 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Dead he lay among his books \ 
The peace of God was in his looks. 



As the statues in the gloom 
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb,^ 



So those volumes from their shelves 
Watched him, silent as themselves- 

Ah ! his hand will nevermore 
Turn their storied pages o'er; 

Nevermore his lips repeat 
Songs of theirs, however sweet. 

Let the lifeless body rest ! 
He is gone, who was its guest ; 

Gone, as travellers haste to leave 
An inn, nor tarry until eve. 

Traveller ! in what realms afar, 
In what planet, in what star. 

In what vast, aerial space, 
Shines the light upon thy face ? 

In what gardens of delight 
Rest thy weary feet to-night ? 

Poet ! thou, whose latest verse 
Was a garland on thy hearse ; 

Thou hast sung, with organ ton6, 
In Deukalion's life, thine own: 



On the ruins of the Past 
Blooms the perfect flower at last* 

1 Id the Hofkirche at Innsbruck. 



FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. 



395 



Friend ! but yesterday the bells 
Rang for thee their loud farewells; 

And to-day they toU for thee, 
Lying dead beyond the sea ; 

Lying dead among thy books, 
The peace of God in all thy looks ! 



THE CHAMBER OVER THE 
GATE. 

Is it so far from thee 
Thou canst no longer see, 
Li the Chambei* over the Gate, 
That old man desolate, 
Weeping and wailing sore 
For his son, who is no more? 
O Absalom, my son ! 

Is it so long ago 
That cry of human woe 
From the walled city came. 
Calling on his dear name. 
That it has died away 
In the distance of to-day ? 
O Absalom, my son ! 

There is no far or near. 
There is neither there nor here, 
There is neither soon nor late, 
In that Chamber over the Gate, 
Nor any long ago 
To that cry of human woe, 
Absalom, my son ! 

From the ages that are past 
The voice sounds like a blast, 
Over seas that wreck and drown. 
Over tumult of traffic and town ; 
And from ages yet to be 
Come the echoes back to me, 
Absalom, my son ! 

Somewhere at every hour 
The watchman on the tower 
Looks forth, and sees the fleet 
Approach of the hurrying feet 
Of messengers, that bear 
The tidings of despair. 
O Absalom, my son ! 

He goes forth from the door 
"Who shall return no more. 
With him our joy departs ; 
The light goes out in our hearts ; 



In the Chamber over the Gate 
We sit disconsolate. 

Absalom, ray son ! 

That 't is a common grief 
Bringeth but slight relief; 
Ours is the bitterest loss. 
Ours is the heaviest cross ; 
And forever the cry will be 
Would God I had died for thee, 
O Absalom, my son ! " 



FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. 

TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE, 

Who presented to me, on my Seventy -second 
Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made 
from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's 
Chestnut Tree. 

Am I a king, that I should call my own 
This splendid ebon thronel 

Or by what reason, or what right di- 
vine. 
Can I proclaim it mine 1 

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song 

It may to me belong ; 
Only because the spreading chestnut 
tree 

Of old was sung by me. 

Well I remember it in all its prime, 
When in the summer-time 

The affluent foliage of its branches made 
A cavern of cool shade. 

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside 
the street, 

Its blossoms white and sweet 
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive. 

And murmured like a hive. 

And when the winds of autumn, with a 
shout. 
Tossed its great arms about, 
. The shining chestnuts, bursting from the 
^ sheath. 

Dropped to the ground beneath. 

And now some fragments of its branches 
bare. 
Shaped as a stately chair. 
Have by my hearthstone found a home 
at last, 
And whisper of the past. 



396 



ULTIMA THULE. 



Tbe Danish king could not in all his 

pride 
Repel the ocean tide, 
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme 
Koll back the tide of Time. 

I see again, as one in vision sees, 
The blossoms and the bees, 

And hear the children's voices shout and 
call, 
And the brown chestnuts fall. 

I see che smithy with its fires aglow, 
I hear the bellows blow. 

And the shrill hammers on the anvil 
beat 
The iron white with heat ! 

And thus, dear children, have ye made 
for me 
This day a jubilee, 
And to my more than three-score years 
and ten 
Brought back my youth again. 

The heart hath its own memory, like the 
mind, 
And in it are enshrined 
The precious keepsakes, into which is 
wrought 
The giver's loving thought. 

Only your love and your remembrance 
could 
Give life to this dead wood, 
And make these branches, leafless now so 
long, 
Blossom again in song. 



JUGURTHA. 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 
Cried the African monarch, the splen- 
did, 

As down to his death in the hollow 
Dark dungeons of Rome he descended. 
Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended ; 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo I 
Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, 

As the vision, that lured him to follow, 
With the mist and the darkness 

blended, 
And the dream of his life was ended ; 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 



THE IRON PEN, 

Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Priaonet 
of Chillon ; the handle of wood from the Frig- 
ate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of 
gold, inset with three precious stones from 
Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine. 

I THOUGHT this Pen would arise 
From the casket wheie it lies — 
Of itself would arise and write 
My thanks and my surprise. 

When you gave it me under the pines, 
I dreamed these gems fiom the mines 

Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine 
Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines: 

That this iron link from the chain 
Of Bonnivard might retain 

Some verse of the Poet who sang 
Of the prisoner and his pain ; 

That this wood from the frigate's mast 
Might write me a rhyme at last. 
As it used to write on the ?ky 
The song of the sea and the blast. 

But motionless as I wait. 
Like a Bishop lying in state 

Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold. 
And its jewels inviolate. 

Then must I speak, and vsay 
That the light of that summer day 

Li the garden under the pines 
Shall not fade and pass away. 

I shall see you standing there, 
Caressed by the fragrant air. 

With the shadow on your face, 
And the sunshine on your hair. 

I shall hear the sweet low tone 
Of a voice before unknown, 

Saying, " This is from me to you — 
From me, and to you alone." 

And in words not idle and vain 
I shall answer and thank you again 
For the gift, and the grace of the 
gift, 
O beautiful Helen of Maine ! 

And forever this gift will be 
As a blessing from you to me. 

As a drop of the dew of your youth 
On the leaves of an aged tree. 



HELEN OF TYRE. 



397 



ROBERT BURNS. 

I SEE amid the fields of Ayr 

A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, 

Sings at his task 
So clear, we know not if it is 
The laverock's song we hear, or his, 

Nor care to ask. 

For him the ploughing of those fields 
A more ethereal harvest yields 

Than sheaves of grain ; 
Songs flush with purple bloom the rye. 
The plover's call, the curlew's cry, 

Sing in his brain. 

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed 
Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed 

Beside the stream 
Is clothed with beauty ; gorse and grass 
And heather, where his footsteps pass. 

The brighter seem. 

He sings of love, whose flame illumes 
The darkness of lone cottage rooms ; 

He feels the force, 
The treacherous undertow and stress 
Of wayward passions, and no less 

The keen remorse. 

At moments, wrestling with his fate. 
His voice is harsh, but not with hate ; 

The brushwood, hung 
Above the tavern door, lets fall 
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall 

Upon his tongue. 

But still the music of his song 
Rises o'er all elate and strong ; 

Its master-chords 
Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, 
Its discords but an interlude 

Between the words. 
♦ 

And then to die so young and leave 
Unfinished what he might achieve ! 

Yet better sure 
Is this, than wandering up and down 
An old man in a country town, 

Infirm and poor. 

For now he haunts his native land 
As an immortal youth ; his hand 

Guides every plough ; 
He sits beside each ingle-nook, 
His voice is in each rushing brook, 

Each rustling bough. 



His presence haunts this room to-night, 
A form of mingled mist and light 

From that far coast. 
Welcome beneath this roof of mine ! 
Welcome ! this vacant chair is thine, 

Dear guest and ghost ! 

HELEN OF TYRE. 

What phantom is this that appears 
Through the purple mist of the years, 

Itself but a mist like these 'i 
A woman of cloud and of fire ; 
It is she ; it is Helen of Tyre, 

The town in the midst of the seas 

O Tyre ! in thy crowded streets 
The phantom appears and retreats, 

And the Israelites that sell 
Thy lilies and lions of brass. 
Look up as they see her pass, 
And murmur " Jezebel ! '* 

Then another phantom is seen 
At her side, in a gray gabardine. 

With beard that floats to his waist j 
It is Simon Magus, the Seer ; 
He speaks, and she pauses to hear 

The words he utters in haste. 

He says : " From this evil fame. 
From this life of sorrow and shame, 

I will lift thee and make thee mine ; 
Thou hast been Queen Can dace. 
And Helen of Troy, and shalt be 

The Intelligence Divine ! " 

Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, 
To the fallen and forlorn 

Are whispered words of praise ; 
For the famished heart believes 
The falsehood that tempts and deceives, 

And the promise that betrays. 

So she follows from land to land 
The wizard's beckoning hand, 

As a leaf is blown by the gust, 
Till she vanishes into night. 
O reader, stoop down and write 

With thy finger in the dust. 

O town in the midst of the seas, 
With thy rafts of cedar trees, 

Thy merchandise and thy ships, 
Thou, too, art become as naught, 
A phantom, a shadow, a thought, 

A name upon men's lips. 



398 



ULTIMA THULE. 



ELEGIAC. 

Dark is the morning with mist ; iu the 
narrow mouth of the harbor 
Motionless lies the sea, under its cur- 
tain of cloud ; 
Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on 
the distant horizon, 
Like to the towers of a town, built on 
the verge of the sea. 

Slowly and stately and still, they sail 
forth into the ocean ; 
With them sail my thoughts over the 
limitless deep, 
farther and farther away, borne on by 
unsatisfied longings, 
Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian 
shores. 

Now they have vanished away, have dis- 
peared in the ocean ; 
Sunk cire the towers of the town into 
the depths of the sea ! 
Ail have vanished but those that, moored 
in the neighboring roadstead, 
Sailless at anchor ride, looming so 
large in the mist. 

Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, 
unsatisfied longings ; 
Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the 
ocean of dreams ; 
While in a haven of rest my heart is rid- 
ing at anchor. 
Held by the chains of love, held by the 
anchors of trust ! 



OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNOR. 

What an image of peace and rest 

Is this little church among its graves ! 
A.11 is so quiet ; the troubled breast. 
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed. 
Here may find the repose it craves. 



See, how the ivy climbs and expands 

Over this humble hermitage. 
And seems to caress with its little hands 
The rough, gray stones, as a child that 
stands 
Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age ! 

You cross the threshold ; and dim and 
small 
Is the space that serves for the Shep 
herd's Fold ; 
The narrow aisle, the bare, white waU, 
The pews, and the pulpit quaint and 
tall. 
Whisper and say : " Alas ! we are old." 

Herbert's chapel at Bemerton 

Hardly more spacious is than this ; 
But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, 
Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, 
That lowly and holy edifice. 

It is not the wall of stone without 
That makes the building small or 
great 
But the soul's light shining round about, 
And the faith that overcometh doubt, 
And the love that stronger is than 
hate. 

Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, 

Were I a pastor of Holy Church, 
More than a Bishop's diocese 
Should I prize this place of rest, and re- 
lease 
From farther longing and farther 
search. 

Here would I stay, and let the world 
With its distant thunder roar and 
roll ; 
Storms do not rend the sail that is 

furled ; 
Nor like a dea'd leaf, tossed and whirled 
In an eddy of wind, is th© anchorei) 
soul. X k^ 

>" 



MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 



399 



FOLK SONGS. 



THE SIFTING OF PETER. 

In St. Luke's Gospel we are told 
How Peter in the days of old 

Was sifted ; 
And now, though ages intervene, 
Sin is the same, while time and scene 

Are shifted. 

Satan desires us, great and small, 
As wheat to sift us, and we all 

Are tempted ; 
Not one, however rich or great, 
Is by his station or estate 

Exempted. 

No house so safely guarded is 
But he, by some device of his. 

Can enter ; 
No heart hath armor so complete 
But he can pierce with arrows fleet 

Its centre. 

For all at last the cock will crow, 
Who hear the warning voice, but go 

Unheeding, 
Till thrice and more they have denied 
The Man of Sorrows, crucified 

And bleeding. 

One look of that pale suffering face 
Will make us feel the deep disgrace 

Of weakness ; 
We shall be sifted till the vStrength 
Of self-conceit be changed at length 

To meekness. 

Wounds of the soul, though healed will 

ache; 
The reddening scars remain, and make 

Confession ; 
Lost innocence returns no more ; 
We are not what we were before 
Transgression. 

But noble souls, through dust and heat, 
Rise from disaster and defeat 

The stronger, 
And conscious still of the divine 
Within them, lie on earth supi^ 

No longer. ' 



MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK 



Weathercock on the village spire. 
With your golden feathers all on fire, 
Tell me, Avhat can you see from your 

perch 
Above there over the tower of the church ? 

WEATHERCOCK. 

1 can see the roofs and the streets below, 
And the people moving to and fro, 
And beyond, without either roof or street, 
The great salt sea, and the fisherman's 

fleet. 

I can see a ship come sailing in 
Beyond the headlands and harbor of 

Lynn, 
And a young man standing on the deck, 
With a silken kerchief round his neck. 

Now he is pressing it to his lips, 
And now he is kissing his finger-tips, 
And now he is lifting and waving his 

hand. 
And blowing the kisses toward the land. 

MAIDEN. 

Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, 
That is bringing my lover back to me, 
Bringing my lover so fond and true, 
Who does not change with the wind like 
you. 

WEATHERCOCK. 

If I change Avith all the winds that blow, 
It is only because they made me so, 
And people would think it wondrous 

strange. 
If I, a Weathercock, should not change. 

O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, 
With your dreamy eyes and your golden 

hair. 
When you and your lover meet to-day 
You will thank me for looking some other 

Way. 



400 



SONNETS. 



THE WINDMILL. 

Behold ! a giant am I ! 

Aloft here in my tower, 

With my granite jaws I devour 

The maize, and the wheat, and the rye. 
And grind them into flour. 

I look down over the farms ; 
In the fields of grain I see 
The harvest that is to be, 

And I fling to the air my arms, 
For I know it is all for me. 

I hear the sound of flails 

Ear off, from the threshing-floors 
In barns, with their open doors. 

And the wind, the wind in my sails. 
Louder and louder roars. 

I stand here in my place. 

With my foot on the rock below. 
And whichever way it may blow 

I meet it face to face, 

As a brave man meets his foe. 

And while we wrestle and strive 
My master, the miller, stands 
And feeds me with his hands ; 

For he knows who makes him thrive, 
Who make? him lord of lands. 



On Sundays I take my rest ; 
Church-going bells begin 
Their low, melodious din ; 

I cross my arms on my breast, 
And all is peace within. 



THE TIDE EISES, THE TIDE 
EALLS. 

The tide rises, the tide falls. 
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls ; 
Along the sea-sands damp and brown 
The traveller hastens toward the town, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, 
But the sea in the darkness calls and 

calls ; 
The little waves, with their soft, white 

hands. 
Efface the footprints in the sands, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

The morning breaks ; the steeds in their 

stalls 
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls ; 
The day returns, but nevermore 
Returns the traveller to the shore. 
And the tide rises, the tide fails. 



SONNETS. 



MY CATHEDRAL. 

Like two cathedral towers these stately 

pines 
Uplift their fretted summits tipped 

with cones; 
The arch beneath them is not built 

with stones. 
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely 

lines, 
A.nd carved this graceful arabesque of 

vines ; 
No organ but the wind here sighs and 

moans. * 



No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones, 

No marble bishop on his tomb re- 
clines. 
Enter ! the pavement, carpeted witH 
leaves. 

Gives back a softened echo to thy 
tread ! 

Listen ! the choir is singing ; all the 
birds. 
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, 

Are singing ! listen, ere the sound be 
fled. 

And learn there may be worship with- 
out words. 



THE POET AND HIS SONGS. 



401 



THE BURIAL OF THE POET. 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

In the old churchyard of his native town, 
And f'n the ancestral tomb beside the 

wall, 
We laid him in the sleep that comes 

to all, 
And left liirn to his rest and his renown. 
The snow was falling, as if Heaven drop- 
ped down 
White flowers of Paradise to strew his 

pall ; — 
The dead around him seemed to wake, 

and call 
His name, as worthy of so white a 

crown. 
And now the moon is shining on the 

scene, 
And the broad sheet of snow is written 

o'er 
With shadows cruciform of leafless 

trees, 
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin 
With chapters of the Koran ; but, ah ! 

more 
Mysterious and triumphant signs are 

thesa. 



NIGHT. 

Into the darkness and the hush of 

night 
Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades 

away. 
And with it fade the phantoms of the 

day, 
The ghosts of men and things, that 

haunt the light. 
The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the 

flight. 
The unprofltal)le splendor and display, 
The agitations, and the cares that 

prey 
Upon our hearts, all vanish out of 

sight. 
The better life begins ; the world no 

more 
Molests us ; all its records we erase 
From the dull commonplace book of 

our lives, 
That like a palimpsest is written o'er 
With trivial incidents of time and 

place. 
And lo ! the ideal, hidden beneath, re- 
vives. 



L'ENVOL 



THE POET AND HIS SONGS. 



As the birds come in the Spring, 
We know not from where ; 

As the stars come at evening 
From depths of the air ; 

As the rain comes from the cloud. 
And the brook from the ground 

As suddenly, low or loud. 
Out of silence a sound ; 

As the grape comes to the vine, 

The fruit to the tree ; 
As the wind comes to the pine, 

And the tide to the sea ; 

As come the white sails of ships 
O'er the ocean's verge ; 



As comes the smile to the lips, 
The foam to the surge ; 

So come to the Poet his songs. 

All hitherward blown 
From the misty realm, that belongs 

To the vast Unknown, 

His, and not his, are the lays 

He sings ; and their fame 
Is his, and not liis ; and the praise 

And the pride of a name. 

For voices pursue him by day. 

And haunt him by night. 
And he listens, and needs must obey. 

When the Angel says : " Write I " 



402 



IN THE HARBOR. 



IN THE HARBOR. 



ULTIMA THULE. — PART II. 



BECALMED. 

Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, 
Still unattained the land it sought, 
My mind, with loosely-hanging sails. 
Lies waiting the auspicious gales. 

On either side, behind, before, 
The ocean stretches like a floor, — 
A level floor of amethyst. 
Crowned by a golden dome of mist. 

Blow, breath of inspiration, blow ! 
Shake and uplift this golden glow ! 
And fill the canvas of the mind 
With wafts of thy celestial wind. 

Blow, breath of song ! until I feel 
The straining sail, the lifting keel, 
The life of the awakening sea. 
Its motion and its mystery ! 



HERMES TRISMEGISTUS. 

As Seleucus narrates, Hermes describes the 
principles thiat rank as wholes in two myriads 
of books ; or, as we are informed by Manetho, 
he perfectly unfolded these principles in three 
myriads six thousand five hundred and twenty- 
tive volumes. . . . 

. . . Our ancestors dedicated the inventions 
\)f their wisdom to this deity, inscribing all 
their own writings with the name of Hermes. — 
Iamblicus. 

Still through Egypt's desert places 

Flows the lordly Nile, 
From its banks the great stone faces 

Gaze with patient smile. 
Still the pyramids impeiious 

Pierce the cloudless skies. 
And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, 

Solemn, stony eyes. 

But where are the old Egyptian 

Demi-gods and kings 1 
Nothing leJEt but an inscription 

Graven on stones and rings. 



Where are Helios and Hephaestus, 

Gods of eldest eld 1 
Where is Hermes Trismegistus, 

Who their secrets held ? 

Where are now the many hundred 

Thousand books he wrote ? 
By the Thaumaturgists plunderedf 

Lost in lands remote ; 
In oblivion sunk forever, 

As when o'er the land 
Blows a storm-wind, in the river 

Sinks the scattered sand. 

Something unsubstantial, ghostly, 

Seems this Theurgist, 
In deep meditation mostly 

Wrapped, as in a mist. 
Vague, phantasmal, and unrea\ 

To our thought he seems, 
Walking in a world ideal, 

In a land of dreams. 

Was he one, or many, merging 

Name and fame in one. 
Like a stream, to which, converging, 

Many streamlets run ? 
Till, with gathered power proceeding. 

Ampler sweep it takes, 
Downward the sweet waters leading 

From unnumbered lakes. 

By the Nile I see him wandering, 

Pausing now and then. 
On the mystic union pondering 

Between gods and men ; 
Half believing, wholly feeling, 

With supreme delight, 
Eow the gods, themselves concealing, 

Lift men to their height. 

Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated, 

In the thoroughfare 
Breathing, as if consecrated, 

A diviner air ; 
And amid discordant noises, 

In the jostling throng. 



THE POET'S CALENDAR. 



4oa 



Hearing far, celestial voices 
Of Olympian song. 

Who shall call his dreams fallacious ? 

Who has searched or sought 
All the unexplored and spacious 

Universe of thought 1 
Who, in his own skill confiding. 

Shall with rule and line 
Mark the border-land dividing 

Human and divine 1 

Trismegistus ! three times greatest! 

How thy name sublime 
Has descended to this latest 

Progeny of time ! 
Happy they whose written pages 

Perish with their lives. 
If amid the crumbling ages 

Still their name survives ! 

Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately 

Found 1 in the vast, 
Weed-encumbered, sombre, stately. 

Grave-yard of the Past; 
And a presence moved before me 

On that gloomy shore, 
As a waft of wind, that o'er me 

Breathed, and was no more. 



THE POET'S CALENDAR. 



JANUARY. 



Janus am I ; oldest of potentates ; 
Forward I look, and backward, and 
below 
i count, as god of avenues and gates. 
The years that through my portals 
come and go. 



I block the roads, and drift the fields 
with snow ; 
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen 
fen; 
My frosts congeal the rivers in their 
flow. 
My fires light up the hearths and 
hearts of men. 

FEBRUARY. 

I am lustration , and the sea is mine . 
I wash the sands and headlands with 
my tide ; 



My brow is crowned with branches of 
the pine ; 
Before my chariot-wheels the fishes 
glide. 
By me all things unclean are purified. 
By me the souls of men washed white 
again ; 
E'en the unlovely tombs of those who 
died 
Without a dirge, I cleanse from every 
stain. 

MARCH. 

I Martins am ! Once first, and now the 
third ! 
To lead the Year was my appointed 
place ; 
A mortal dispossessed me by a word. 
And set there Janus with the double 
face. 
Hence I make war on all the human 
race ; 
I shake the cities with my hurricanes; 
I flood the rivers and their banks efface, 
And drown the farms and hamlets 
with my rains. 



APRIL. 

I open wide the portals of the Spring 
To welcome the procession of the 
flowers. 
With their gay banners, and the birds 
that sing 
Their song of songs from their aerial 
towers. 
I soften with my sunshine and my show- 
ers 
The heart of earth ; with thoughts of 
love I glide 
Into the hearts of men ; and with the 
Hours 
Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I 
ride. 

MAY. 

Hark ! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud 
proclaim 
My coming, and the swarming of the 
bees. 
These are my heralds, and behold ! my 
name 
Is written in blossoms on the haw* 
thorn-trees. 
I tell the mariner when to sail tha 
seas; 
I waft o'er all the land from far away 



404 



IN THE HARBOR. 



The breath and bloom of the Hesper- 
ides, 
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am 
May. 

JUNE 

Mine is the Month of Roses ; yes, and 
miue 
The Mouth of Marriao-es ! All pleas- 
ant sights 
A.ud sceuts, the fragrance of the blos- 
soming vine, 
The foliage of the valleys and the 
heights. 
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest 
nights; 
The mower's scythe makes music to 
my ear ; 
I am the mother of all dear delights ; 
I am the fairest daughter of the vear. 



JULY. 

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe 
The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the 
laud ; 
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, 
And bent before me the pale harvests 
stand. 
The lakes and rivers shrink at my com- 
mand, 
And there is thirst and fever in the 
air ; 
The sky is clianged to brass, the earth 
to sand ; 
I am the Emperor whose name I bear. 



AUGUST. 

The Emperor Octavian, called the Au- 
gust, 
I being his favorite, bestowed his 
name 
Upon me, aud I hold it still in trust, 

In memory of him and of his fame. 
I am the Virgin, aud my vestal fl;ime 
Burns less intensely than the Lion's 
rage; 
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I 
claim 
The golden Harvests ar. my heritage. 

SEPTEMBER. 

I bear the Scales, where hang in equi- 
poise 
The night and day ; and when unto 
my lips 



I put my trumpet, with its stress and 
noise 
Fly the white clouds like tattered sails 
of ships; 
The tree-tops lash the air with sounding 
whips ; 
Southward the clamorous sea-fowl 
wiug their flight ; 
The hedges are all red witli haws an^ 
hips. 
The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of 
the night. 



OCTOBER. 

My ornaments are fruits ; my garments 
leaves. 
Woven like cloth of gold, and crim- 
son dyed ; 
I do not boast the harvesting of sneaves, 
O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I 
preside. 
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, 
llie dreamy air is full, and over- 
flows 
With tender memories of the summer- 
tide, 
And mingled voices of the doves and 
crows. 

NOVEMBER. 

The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, m 

Born of Ixion's and the cloud's em- ■ 
brace ; 
With sounding hoofs across the earth I 

fly, 

A steed Thessalian with a human face. 
Sharp winds the arrows are with which k 
I chase J| 

The leaves, half dead already with 
affright ; 
I shroud myself in gloom ; and to the 
race 
Of mortals bring nor comfort nor 
delight. 



DECEMBER. 

Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white 
hair, 
I come, the last of all. This crown of 
mine 
Is of the holly ; in my hand I bear 
The thyrsus, tipped with fragran, 
cones of pine. 
I celebrate the birth of the Divine, 
Aud tho return of the Saturnias 
reign ; — 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 



405 



My songs are carols sung at every 
shrine, 
Proclaiming " Peace on earth, good 
will to men." 



MAD RIVER, 

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

TRAVELLER. 

Why dost thou wildlv rush and roar, 

Mad River, Mad River? 
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour 
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er 
This rocky shelf forever 1 

What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? 

Why all this fret and flurry ? 
Dost thou not know that what is best 
In this too restless world is rest 

From over-work and worry 1 

THE RIVER, 

What wouldst thou in these mountains 
seek, 

O stranger from the city ? 
Is it perhaps some foolish freak 
Of thine, to put the words I speak 

Into a plaintive ditty ? 

TRAVELLER. 

Yes ; I would learn of thee thy song, 

With all its flowing numbers, 
And in a voice as fresh and strong 
As thine is, sing it all day long, 

And hear it in my slumbers. 

THE RIVER. 

A brooklet nameless and unknown 
Was I at first, resembling 

A little child, that all alone 

Comes venturing down the stairs of 
stone, 
Irresolute and trembling. 

Later, by wayward fancies led, 

For the wide world I panted ; 

Out of the forest dark and dread 

Across the open fields I flecJ, 

Like one pursued and haunted 

I tossed my aims, I sang aloud, 

My voice exultant blending' 



With thunder from the passing cloud, 
The wind, the forest bent and bowed, 
The rush of rain descending. 

I heard the distant ocean call, 

Imploring and entreating; 
Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall 
I plunged, and the loud waterfall 

Made answer to the greeting. 

And now, beset witli many ills, 
A toilsome life I follow; 
-Compelled to carry from the hills 
These logs to the impatient mills 
Below there in the hollow. 

Yet something ever cheers and charms 

The rudeness of my labors ; 
Daily I water with these arms 
The cattle of a hundred farms, 

And have the birds for neighbors. 

Men call me Mad, and well they may. 

When, full of rage and trouble, 

I burst my banks of sand and clay, 

And sweep their wooden bridge away, 

Like withered reeds or stubble. 

Now go and write thy little rhyme. 
As of thine own creating. 

Thou seest the day is past its prime ; 

I can no longer waste my time ; 

The mills are tired of waiting 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 

IN MEMORY OF .T. T. F. 

Until we meet again! That is the 

meaning 
Of the familiar words, that men repeat 

At parting in the street. 
Ah yes, till then ! but Avhen death in 

tervening 
Rends us asuncler, with what ceaseles? 
pain 
We wait for the Again ! 

The friends who leave us do not feel the 

sorrow 
Of parting, as we feel it, who must stay 

Lamenting day by day, 
And knowing, when we wake upon the 

morroAV, 
We shall not find in its accustomed 
place 
The one beloved face. 



i06 



IN THE HARBOR. 



It were a double grief, if the departed, 
Beiug released from earth, should still 
retain 
A sense of earthly pain ; 
It were a double grief, if the true- 
hearted, 
Who loved us here, should on the far- 
ther shore 
Remembei us no more. 

Believing, in the midst of our afflictions, 
That death is a beginning, not an end. 

We cry to them, and send 
Farewells, that better might be called 

predictions. 
Being fore-shadowings of the future, 
thrown 
Into the vast Unknown. 

Faith overleaps the confines of our rea- 
son. 
And if by faith, as in old times was said, 

Women received their dead 
liaised up to life, then only for a sea- 
son 
Our partings are, nor shall we wait in 
vain 
Until we meet again ! 



THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE. 

[A FRAGMENT] 



What is this I read in history. 
Full of marvel, full of mystery, 
Difficult to understand ? 
Is it fiction, is it truth ? 
Children in the flower of youth. 
Heart in heart, and hand in hand, 
Ignorant of what helps or harms, 
Without armor, without arms. 
Journeying to the Holy Land ! 

Who shall answer or divine ? 
Never since the world was made 
Such a wonderful crusade 
Started forth for Palestine. 
Never while the world shall last 
Will it reproduce the past ; 
Never will it see again 
Such an army, such a band, 
Over mountain, over main, 
Journeying to the Holy Land. 

Like a shower of blossoms blown 
From the parent trees were they ; 



Like a flock of birds that fly 
Through the unfrequented sky, 
Holding nothing as their own. 
Passed they into lands unknown, 
Passed to suffer and to die. 

the simple, child-like trust ! 
the faith that could believe 
What the harnessed, iron-mailed 
Knights of Christendom had failed, 
By their prowess, to achieve. 
They, the children, could and must ! 

Little thought the Hermit, preacliing 
Holy Wars to knight and baron. 
That the words dropped in his teach 

i»g, 
His entreaty, his beseeching. 
Would by children's hands be gleaned. 
And the staff on which he leaned 
Blossom like the rod of Aaron. 

As a summer wind upheaves 

The innumerable leaves 

In the bosom of a wood, — 

Not as separate leaves, but massed 

All together by the blast, — 

So for evil or for good 

His resistless breath upheaved 

All at once the many-leaved, 

Many-thoughted multitude. 

In the tumult of the air 
Rock the boughs with all the nests 
Cradled on their tossing crests ; 
By the fervor of his prayer 
Troubled hearts were everywhere 
Rocked and tossed in human breasts. 

For a century, at least. 
His prophetic voice had ceased ; 
But the air was heated still 
By his lurid words and will. 
As from fires in far-off woods. 
In the autumn of the year. 
An unwonted fever broods 
In the sultry atmosphere. 



In Cologne the bells were ringing, 
In Cologne the nuns were singing 
Hymns and canticles divine; 
Loud the monks sang in their stalls, 
And the thronging streets were loud 
With the voices of the crowd ; — 
Underneath the city walls 
Silent flowed the river Rhine. 



SUNDOWN. 



40' 



From the gates, that summer day. 
Clad in robes of hodden gray, 
With the red cross on the breast. 
Azure-eyed and golden-haired, 
Forth the young crusaders fared ; 
While above the band devoted 
Consecrated banners floated. 
Fluttered many a flag and streamer, 
And the cross o'er all the rest ! 
Singing lowly, meekly, slowly, 
" Give us, give us back the holy 
Sepulchre of the Redeemer ! " 
On the vast procession pressed, 
Youths and maidens. . . . 



Ah ! what master hand shall paint 
How they journeyed on their way, 
How the days grew long and dreary, 
How their little feet grew Aveary, 
How their little hearts grew faint ! 

Ever swifter day by day 
Flowed the homeward river ; ever 
More and more its whitening current 
Broke and scattered into spray, 
Till the calmly-flowing river 
Changed into a mountain torrent. 
Rushing from its glacier green 
Down through chasm and black ravine. 
Like a phoenix in its nest. 
Burned the red sun in the West, 
Sinking in an ashen cloud ; 
In the East, above the crest 
Of the sea-like mountain chain. 
Like a phoenix from its shroud, 
Came the red sun back again. 

Now around them, white with snow. 
Closed the mountain ])eaks. Below, 
Headlong from the precipice 
Down into the dark abyss, 
Plunged the cataract, white with foam : 
And it said, or seemed to say : 
"Oh return, while yet you may. 
Foolish children, to your home, 
There the Holy City is ! " 

But the dauntless leader said : 
*' Faint not, though your bleeding feet 
O'er these slippery paths of sleet 
Move but pninfuUy and slowly; 
Other feet than yours have bled ; 
Other tears than yours been shed 
Courage ! lose not heart or hope ; 
On the mountains' soutliern slope 
Lies Jerusalem the Holy ! " 



As a white rose in its pride. 
By the wind in summer- tide 
Tossed and loosened from the branch, 
Showers its petals o'er the ground. 
From the distant mountain's side. 
Scattering all its snows around, 
With mysterious, mufiled sound, 
Loosened, fell the avalanche. 
Voices, echoes far and near. 
Roar of winds and waters blending. 
Mists uprising, clouds impending, 
Filled them with a sense of fear. 
Formless, nameless, never ending. 



THE CITY AND THE SEa. 

The panting City cried to the Sea, 
" I am faint with heat, — O breathe on 
me!" 

And the Sea said, " Lo, I breathe ! but 

my breath 
To some will be life, to others death ! " 

As to Prometheus, bringing ease 
In pain, come the Oceanides, 

So to the City, hot with the flame 

Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came. 

It came from the heaving breast of the 

deep, 
Silent as dreams are, and sudden as 



Life-giving, death-giving, Avhich will it 

be; 
O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea^ 



SUNDOWN. 

The summer sun is sinking low ; 
Only the tree-tops redden and glow ; 
Only the weathercock on the spire 
Of the neighboring church is a flame ol 
Are ; 
All is in sliadow below. 

O beautiful, awful summer day, 
What hast thou given, what taken away? 
Life and death, and love and hate. 
Homes made happy or desolate. 
Hearts made sad or gay ! 

On the road of life one mile-stone more 
In the book of life one leaf turned o'er 



408 



IN THE HARBOR. 



Like a red seal is the setting sun 
On the good and the evil men have 
done, — 
Naught can to-day restore ! 
July 24, 1879. 

PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 



E VENN I DAL MARTIRIO A QUESTA 
PAGE." 



These words the poet heard in Para- 
dise, 

Uttered by one who, bravely dying 
here. 

In the true faith was living in that 
sphere 

Where the celestial cross of sacrifice 
Spread its protecting arms athwart the 
skies ; 

And set thereon, like jewels crystal 
clear, 

The souls magnanimous, that knew 
not fear, 

Flashed their effulgence on his daz- 
zled eyes. 
Ah me ! how dark the discipline of pain, 

Were not tlie suffering followed by 
the sense 

Of infinite lest and infinite release ! 
This is our consolation ; and again 

A great soul cries to us in our sus- 
pense, 

" I came from martyrdom unto this 
peace ! " 



DECORATION DAY. 

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest 
On tins Field of the Grounded Arms, 

AVhere foes no more molest. 
Nor sentry's shot alarms ! 

Ye have slept on the ground before, 

And started to your feet 
At the cannon's suddeu roar. 

Or the drum's redoubling beat. 

But in this camp of Death 
No sound your slumber breaks; 

Here is no fevered breath, 
No wound that bleeds and aches. 

All is repose and peace, 

Un tram pled lies the sod ; 
The shouts of battle cease, 

It is the Truce of God ! 



Rest, comrades, rest and sleep ! 

The thoughts of men shall be 
As sentinels to keep 

Your rest from danger free. 

Your silent tents of green 

We deck Avith fragrant flowers ; 

Yours has the suffering been, 
The memory shall be ours. 
February 3, 1882. 



CHIMES. 

Sweet chimes ! that in the loneliness 

of night 
Salute the passing hour, and in the 

dark 
And silent cliambers of the house- 
hold mark 
The movements of the myriad orbs 

of light ! 
Through my closed eyelids, by the inner 

sight, 
I see the constellations in the arc 
Of their great circles moving on, and 

hark ! 
I almost hear them singing in their 

flight. 
Better than sleep it is to lie awake 
O'er-canopied by the vast starry dome 
Of the immeasurable sky ; to feel 
The slumbering world sink under us, 

and make 
Hardly an eddy, — a mere rush of 

foam 
On the great sea beneath a sinking 

keel. 
August 28, 1879, 



FOUR BY THE CLOCK. 

Four by the clock ! and yet not day ; 
But the great world rolls and wheels 

away, 
With its cities on land, and its ships at 

sea, 
Into the dawn that is to be ! 

Only the lamp in the anchored bark 
Sends its glimmer across the dark, " 
And the heavy breathing of the sea 
Is the only sound that comes to me. 

Nahant, September 8, 1880, 
Eour o'clock in the moruiug. 



ELEGIAC VERSE. 



THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON. 

Four limpid lakes, — four Naiades 
Or sylvau deities are these, 

In flowing robes of azure dressed; 
Four lovely handmaids, that uphold 
Their shining- mirrors, rimmed with 
gold. 

To the fair city in the West. 

By day the coursers of the sun 
Drink of these waters as they run 

Their swift diurnal round on high ; 
By night the constellations glow 
Far down the hollow deeps below, 

And glimmer in another sky. 

Fair lakes, serene and full of light. 
Fair town, arrayed in robes of white, 

How visionary ye appear ! 
All like a floating landscape seems 
In cloud-land or the land of dreams, 

Bathed in a golden atmosphere ! 



MOONLIGHT. 

As a pale phantom with a lamp 
Ascends some ruin's haunted stair. 

So glides the moon along the damp 
Mysterious chambers of the air. 

Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed. 
As if this phantom, full of pain, 

Were by the crumbling walls concealed. 
And at the windows seen again. 

Until at last, serene and proud 
In all the splendor of her light, 

She walks the terraces of cloud. 
Supreme as Empress of the Night. 

1 look, but recognize no more 
Objects familiar to my view; 

The very pathway to my door 
Is an enchanted avenue. 

All things are changed. One mass of 
shade. 
The elm-trees drop their curtains 
down ; 
By palace, park, and colonnade 
I walk as in a foreign town. 

The very ground beneath my feet 
Is clothed with a diviner air ; 

White marble paves the silent street 
And glimmers in the empty square 



Illusion ! Underneath there lies 
The common hfe of every day ; 

Only tlie spirit glorifies 

With its own tints the sober gray. 

In vain we look, in vain uplift 

Our eyes to heaven, if w'e are blind 

We see but what we have the gift 
Of seeing ; what we bring we find. 

December 20, 1878. 



TO THE AVON. 

Flow on, sweet river ! like his verse 
Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse 
Nor wait beside the churcliyard wall 
For him who cannot hear thy call. 

Thy playmate once ; I see him now 
A boy with sunshine on his brow. 
And hear in Stratford's quiet street 
The patter of his little feet. 

I see him by thy shallow edge 
Wading knee-deep amid the sedge ; 
And lost in thought, as if thy stream 
Were the swift river of a dream. 

He wonders whitherw-ard it flows; 
And fain would follow where it goes. 
To the wide Avorld, that shall erelong 
Be filled with his melodious song. 

Flow on, fair stream! That dream is 

o'er; 
He stands upon another shore ; 
A vaster rive/ near him flows, 
And still he follows where it goes. 



ELEGIAC VERSE. 



I. 

Peradventure of old, some bard ii 
Ionian Islands, 
Walking alone by the sea, hearing the 
wash of the waves. 
Learned the secret from them of the 
beautiful verse elegiac. 
Breathing into his song motion and 
sound of the sea. 

For as the wave of the sea, upheaving in 
long undulations. 
Plunges loud on the sands, pauses, and 
turns, and retreats. 



IN THE HARBOR. 



the Hexameter, rising and singing, 
with cadence sonorous, 
ri'alls; and in refluent rhythm back 
the Pentameter flows.i 



Not in his youth alone, but in age, may 
the heart of the poet 
Bloom into song, as the gorse blossoms 
in autumn and spring. 



Not in tenderness wanting, yet rough are 
the rhymes of our poet ; 
Though it be Jacob's voice, Esau's 



alas ! are the hands. 



IV. 



Let us be grateful to writers for what is 
left in the inkstand ; 
When to leave off is an art only at- 
tained by the few. 



How can the Three be One ? you ask 
me ; I answer by asking, 
Hail and snow and rain, are they not 
three, and yet one? 



By the mirage uplifted the land floats 
vague in the ether, 
Ships and the shadows of ships hang 
in the motionless air ; 
So by the art of the poet our common 
life is uplifted, 
So, transfigured, the world floats in a 
luminous haze. 



Like a French poem is Life ; being only 
perfect in structure 
When with the masculine rhymes min- 
gled the feminine are. 

VIII. 

Down from the mountain descends the 
brooklet, rejoicing in freedom ; 
Little it dreams of the mill hid in the 
valley below ; 

1 Compare Schiller. 

Ini Hexameter steigt des Snringquelleflusgige Saule \ 
lin Pentameter drauf lullt sie melodisib herab. 

See also Coleridge's translation. 



Glad with the joy of existence, the chil^ 
goes singing and laughing. 
Little dreaming what toils lie in the 
future concealed. 



As the ink from our pen, so flow out 
thoughts and our feelings 
When we begin to write, however 
sluggish before. 



Like the Kingdom of Heaven, the Foun- 
tain of Youth is within us ; 
If we seek it elsewhere, old shall we 
grow in the search. 



If you would hit the mark, you must 
aim a little above it ; 
Every arrow that flies feels the attrac- 
tion of eaith. 



Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present 
tense in their language ; 
While we are speaking the word, it is 
is already the Past. 

XIII. 

In the twilight of age all things seem 
strange and phantasmal. 
As between daylight and dark ghost- 
like the landscape appears. 



Great is the art of beginning, but gi^eater 
the art is of ending ; 
Many a poem is marred by a superflu- 
ous verse. 

1881. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Awake \ arise ! the hour is late ! 

Angels are knocking at thy door! 
They are in haste and cannot wait. 

And once departed come no more. 

Awake! arise! the athlete's arm 
Loses its strength by too much rest,- 

The fallow land, the untilled farm 
Produces only weeds at best. 



THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 



411 



THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS.i 

What say the Bells of San Bias 
To the ships that southward pass 

From the harbor of Mazatlan 1 
To them it is iiothiug more 
Than the sound of surf on the shore, — 

Nothing more to master or man. 

But to me, a dreamer of dreams. 
To whom what is and what seems 

Are often one and the same, — 
The Bells of San Bias to me 
Have a strange, wild melody, 

And are something more than a 
name. 

For bells are the voice of the church ; 
They have tones that touch and search 

The hearts of young and old ; 
One sound to all, yet each 
Lends a meaning to their speech, 

And the meaning is manifold. 

They are a voice of the Past, 
Of an age that is fading fast. 

Of a power austere and grand, 
When the flag of Spain unfurled 
Its folds o'er this western world, 

And the Priest was lord of the land. 

The chapel that once looked down 
On the little seaport town 

Has crumbled into the dust; 
And on oaken beams below 
The bells swing to and fro, 

And are green with mould and rust, 

" Is, then, the old faith dead," 
They say, " and in its stead 

Is some new faith proclaimed, 
* The lafic poem written hy Mr. Lonijfellow 



That we are forced to remain 
Naked to sun and rain, 

Unsheltered and ashamed ? 

" Once, in our tower aloof, 
We rang over wall and roof 

Our warnings and our complaints; 
And round about us there 
The white doves filled the air, 

Like the white souls of the saints. 

*' The saints ! Ah, have they jjrown 
Forgetful of their own ? 

Are they asleep, or dead. 
That open to the sky 
Their ruined Missions lie. 

No longer tenanted 1 

" Oh, bring us back once more 
The vanished days of yore, 

When the world with faith was 
filled ; 
Bring back the fervid zeal, 
The hearts of fire and steel. 

The hands that believe and build. 

" Then from our tower again 
We will send over land and main 

Our voices of command, 
Like exiled kings who return 
To their thrones, and the people learn 

That the Priest is lord of thu 
land ! " 

O Bells of Sau Bias, in vain 
Ye call back the Past again ; 

The Past is deaf to your prayer ! 
Out of the shadows of night 
The world rolls into light ; 

It is daybreak everywhere. 

Mare/t \b, 1882 



il2 



IN THE HARBOR. 



TRANSLATIONS, 



PRELUDE. 

^s treasures that men seek, 
Deep-buried in sea-sands, 

Vanish if they but speak, 
And ehide their eager hands, 

So ye escape and sHp, 
O songs, and fade away, 

When the word is on my lip 
To interpret what ye say. 

Were it not better, then, 
To let tlie treasures rest 

Hid from the eyes of men, 
Locked in their iron chest ? 

I have but marked the place, 
But half the secret told. 

That, following this slight trace, 
Others may find the gold. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

;YiLL ever the dear days come back 
again, 

Those days of June, when lilacs were 
in bloom, 

And bluebirds sang their sonnets in 
the gloom 

Of leaves that roofed them in from 
sun or rain 1 
I know not ; but a presence will re- 
main 

Forever and forever in this room, 

Formless, diffused in air, like a per- 
fume, — 

A phantom of the heart, and not the 
brain. 
Delicious days ! when every spoken 
word 

Was like a foot-fall nearer and more 
near. 

And a mysterious knocking at the 
gate 
Of the heart's secret places, and we 
heard 



In the sweet tumult of delight an(? 

fear 
A voice that whispered, '' Open, 1 

cannot wait ! " 



THE WINE OF JURANQON 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES CORAN. 

Little sweet wine of Juran9on, 
You are dear to my memory still! 

With mine host and his merry song, 
Under the rose-tree I drank my fill. 

Twenty years after, passing that way, 
Under the trellis I found again 

Mine host, still sitting there aufrais, 
And singing still the same refrain. 

The Juran9on, so fresh and bold. 
Treats me as one it used to know ; 

Souvenirs of the days of old 
Already from the bottle flow. 

With glass in hand our glances met ; 

We pledge, we drink. How sour it is! 
Never Argenteuil piquette 

Was to my palate sour as this ! 

And yet the vintage was good, in sooth ; 

The self-same juice, the self-same 
cask! 
It was you, O gayety of my youth. 

That failed in the autumnal flask f 



AT LA CHAUDEAU. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF XAVIER MAR 
MIER. 

At La Chaudeau, — * t is long since 

then : 
I was young, — my years twice ten ; 
All things smiled on the happy boy, 
Dreams of love and songs of joy. 
Azure of heaven and wave below. 
At La Chaudeau. 



AUTUMN WITHIN. 



413 



To La Chaudeau I come back old : 
My head is gray, my blood is cold ; 
Seeking along the meadow ooze, 
Seeking beside the river Seymonse, 
The days of my spring-time of long 
ago 
At La Chaudeau. 

At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brain 
£wr grows old with grief and pain ; 
A sweet remembrance keeps off age ; 
A tender friendship doth still assuage 
The burden of sorrow that one may 
know 
At La Chaudeau. 

At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed 
To limit the wandering life I lead, 
Peradventure I stiii, forsooth, 
Should have preserved my fresh green 

youth. 
Under the shadows the hill-tops throw 
At La Chaudeau. 

At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends, 
Happy to be where God intends ; 
And sometimes, by the evening fire, 
Think of him whose sole desire 
Is again to sit in the old chateau 
At La Chaudeau. 



A QUIET LIFE. 

yROM THE FRENCH. 

Let him who will, by force or fraud in- 
nate, 
Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery 

height ; 
I, leaving not the home of my delight, 
Far from the world and noise will 
meditate. 
Then, without pomps or perils of the 
great, 
I shall behold the day succeed the 
night ; 
Behold the alternate seasons take their 
flight. 
And in serene repose old age await. 
And so, whenever Death shall come to 
close 
The happy moments that my days 

compose, 
I, full of years, shall die, obscure, 
alone ! 
How wretched is the man, with honors 
crowned. 
Who, having not the one thing need- 
ful found. 
Dies, known to all, but to himself un- 
known. 
September 11, 187^ 



PERSONAL POEMS, 



LOSS AND GAIN. 

When I compare 
What I have lost with what I have 

gained, 
What I have missed with what attained, 
Little room do I find for pride. 

I am aware 
How many days have been idly spent ; 
How like an arrow the good intent 
Has fallen short or been turned aside. 

But who shall dare 
To measure loss and gain in this Avise ? 
Defeat may be victory in disguise ; 
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. 



AUTUMN WITHIN. 

It is autumn ; not without, 
But within me is the cold. 

Youth and spring are all about ; 
It is I that have grown old. 

Birds are darting through the air, 
Singing, building Avithout rest ; 

Life is stirring everywhere. 
Save within my lonely breast. 

There is silence : the dead leaves 
Fall and rustle and are still ; 

Beats no flail upon the sheaves, 
Comes no murmur from the mill. 

April 9, 1874. 



114 



L'EN'VUI. 



VICI'OR AND VANQUISHED. 

fVs one who long hath fled with panting 

breath 
Before his foe, bleeding and near to 

fall, 
I turn and set my back against the 

wall, 
And look thee in the face, triumphant 

Death, 
I call for aid, and no one answereth ; 
I am alone with thee, who conquerest 

all; 
Yet me thy threatening form doth not 

appall. 
For thou art but a phantom and a 

wraith. 
Wounded and weak, sword broken at 

the hilt. 
With armor shattered, and without a 

shield, 
I stand unmoved ; do with me what 

thou wiit ; 
I can resist no more, but will not yield. 
This is no tournament where cowards 

tilt; 
The vanquished here is victor of the 

field. 
April 4, 1876. 



MEMORIES. 

Oft I remember those whom I have 
known 

In other days, to whom my heart was 
led 

As by a magnet, and who are not dead, 

But absent, and their memories over- 
grown 
With other thoughts and troubles of 
my own. 

As graves with grasses are, and at 
their head 



The stone with moss and lichens so 

o'crspread, 
Nothing is legible but the name alone. 
And is it so with them ? After long 

years, 
Do they remember mc in the same 

way, 
And is the memory pleasant as to me 1 
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my 

fears ? 
Pleasures, like flowers, may witheic 

and decay, 
And yet the root perennial may be. 
September 23, 1881. 



MY BOOKS. 

Sadly as some old mediasval knight 

Gazed at the arms he could no longer 
wield. 

The sword two-handed and the shin- 
ing shield 

Suspended in the hall, and full in 
sight, 
While secret longings for the lost de- 
light 

Of tourney or adventure in the field 

Came over him, and tears but half 
concealed 

Trembled and fell upon his beard ol 
white. 
So I behold these books upon their shelf, 

My ornaments and arms of other 
days ; 

Not wholly useless, though no longer 
used. 
For they remind me of my other self, 

Younger and stronger, and the pleas- 
ant ways 

In which I walked, now clouded and 
confused. 

December 27, 1881. 



L'ENVOl. 



POSSIBILITIES. 

A'here itre the Poets, unto whom be- 
long 
The Olympian heights; whose sing- 
ing shafts were sent 



Straight to the mark, and not from 

bows half bent, 
But with the utmost tension of the 
thong 1 
Where are the stately argosies of 
sonsr. 



MICHAEL ANGELOo 



415 



Whose rushing keels made music as 

they went 
Sailing- in search of some new couti- 

aent, 
With all sail set, and steady winds and 

strong 1 
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, 

untaiiglit 
En schools, some graduate of the field 

or street, 



Who shall become a master of the 

art, 
An admiral sailing the high seas of 

thought, 
Fearless and first and steering with 

his fleet 
For lands not yet laid down in am^ 

chart. 

January 17, 1882. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. 

Ariosto. 
Similamerite operando all' artista 
Ch' a Tabito dell' arte e man che trema. 

Dante, Par. xiiu.st. IT 



DEDICATION. 

N'oTHiNG that is shall perish utterly, 
But perish only to revive again 
In other forms, as clouds restore in 

rain 
The exhalations of the land and sea. 
Men build their houses from the ma- 
sonry 
Of ruined tombs ; the passion and the 

pain 
Of hearts, that long have ceased to 

beat, remain 
To throb in hearts that are, or are to 

be. 
So from old chronicles, where sleep in 

dust 
Names that once filled the world with 

trumpet tones, 
I build this verse ; and flowers of song 

have thrust 
Their roots among the loose disjointed 

stones. 
Which to this end I fashion as I must. 
Quickened are they that touch the 

Prophet's bones. 

PART FIRST. 

I. 

PROLOGUE AT ISCHIA. 

The Castle Terrace. Vittoria Co- 
LONNA, a«c? Julia Gonzaga 

VITTORIA. 

Will you then leave me, Julia, and so 

soon, 
To pace alone this terrace like a ghost 1 



JULIA. 

To-morrow, dearest. 

VITTORIA. 

Do not say to-morrow. 
A whole month of to-morrows were too 

soon. 
You must not go. You are a part of 

me. 

JULIA. 

I must return to Fondi. 

VITTORIA. 

The old castle 
Needs not your presence. No one waits 

for you. 
Stay one day longer with me. They 

who go 
Feel not the pain of parting ; it is they 
Who stay behind that suffer. I was 

thinking 
But yesterday how like and how unlike 
Have been, and are, our destinies. Your 

husband, 
The good Vespasian, an old man, who 

seemed 
A father to you rather than a husband, 
Died in vour arms ; but mine, in all the 

flower 
And promise of his youth, was taken 

from me 
As by a rushing wind. The breath of 

battle 
Breatiied on him, and I saw his face no 

more, 
Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our 

love 



416 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Was for these men, so is our sorrow for 

them. 
Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through 

its tears ; 
But mine the grief of an impassioned 

woman. 
Who drank her life up in one draught 

of love. 

JULIA. 

Behold this locket. This is the white 
hair 

Of my Vespasian. This is the flower- 
of-love, 

This amaranth, and beneath it the de- 
vice 

Non moritura. Thus my heart remains 

True to his memory ; and the ancient 
castle, 

Where we have lived together, where he 
died, 

Is dear to me as Ischia is to you. 

VITTORIA. 

I did not mean to chide you. 

JULIA. 

Let your heart 
Find, if it can, some poor apology 
For one who is too young, and feels too 

keenly 
The joy of life, to give up all her days 
To sorrow for the dead. While I am 

true 
To the remembrance of the man I loved 
And mourn for still, I do not make a 

show 
Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded 
And, like Veronica da Gambara, 
Urape my whole house in mourning, and 

drive forth 
In coach of sable drawn by sable horses, 
As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day 
Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays. 

VITTORIA. 

Bear Julia ! Friendship has its Jeal- 
ousies 

As well as love. Who waits for you at 
Fondi 1 

JULIA. 

A friend of mine and yours ; a friend 

and friar. 
You have at Naples your Fra Berna- 

dino ; 
^nd I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, 



The famous artist, who has come from 

Rome 
To paint my portrait. That is not a sin. 



Only a vanity. 



VITTORIA. 
JULIA. 

He painted yours. 



VITTORIA. 

Do not call up to me those days de- 
parted 
When I was young, and all was bright 

about me. 
And the vicissitudes of life were things 
But to be read of in old histories. 
Though as pertaining unto me or mine 
Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your 

dreams, 
And now, grown older, I look back and 

see 
They were illusions. 

JULIA. 

Yet without illusions 
What would our lives become, what we 

ourselves ? 
Dreams or illusions, call them what you 

will. 
They lift us from the cocimonplace of 

life 
To better things. 

VITTORIA. 

Are there no brighter dreams. 
No higher aspirations, than the wish 
To please and to be pleased ? 

JULIA. 

For you there are ; 
I am no saint ; I feel the world we live 

in 
Comes before that which is to be here 

after. 
And must be dealt with first. 

VITTORIA. 

But in what way ? 

JULIA. 

Lev, tfxQ soft wind that wafts to us the 

odor 
Of v^range blossoms, let the laughing »03 
And the bright sunshine bathing all thJ 

world, 
Answer the question. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



411 



VITTORIA. 

And for whom is meant 
This portrait that you speak of ? 

JULIA. 



The Cardinal Ippolito. 



For my friend 



VITTORII. 

For him ? 

JULIA. 

i'es, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 

'T is always flattering to a woman's 

pride 
To be admired by one whom all admire. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a 

dove 
Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your 

guard. 
He is a Cardinal; and his adoration 
Should be elsewhere directed. 

JULIA. 

You forget 

The horror of that night, when Barba- 
rossa, 

The Moorish corsair, landed on our 
coast 

To seize me for the Sultan Soliman ; 

How in the dead of night, when all were 
sleeping, 

He scaled the castle wall ; how I es- 
caped, 

^nd in my night-dress, mounting a swift 
steed, 

Fled to the mountains, and took refuge 
there 

A.mong the brigands. Then of all my 
friends 

The Cardinal Ippolito wt^i first 

To come with his retainers to my res- 
cue. 

(Could I refuse the only boon he asked 

^t such a time, my portrait ? 

VITTORIA. 

I have heard 
Strange stories of the splendors of his 

palace, 
And how, apparelled like a Spanish 

Prince, 
He rides through Rome with a long 

retinue 
Of Ethiopians and Numidians 



And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic 

dresses, 
Making a gallant show. Is this the 

way 
A Cardinal should live ? 

JULIA. 

He is so jonng ^ 
Hardly of age, or little more than that , 
Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and 

letters, 
A poet, a musician, and a scholar ; 
Master of many languages, and a player 
On many instruments. In Rome, hi» 

palace 
Is the asylum of all men distinguishea 
III art or science, aud ali Florentines 
Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, 
Duke Alessaudro. 

VITTORIA. 

I have seen his portrait. 
Painted by Titian. You have painied it 
In brighter colors. 

JULIA. 

And my Cardinal, 
At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, 
Keeps a tame lion ! 

VITTORIA. 

And so counterfeits 
St. Mark, the Evangelist ! 

JULIA. 

Ah, your tame lioa 
Is Michael Angel o. 

VITTORIA. 

You speak a name 
That always thrills me with a noble 

sound, 
As of a trumpet ! Michael Angelo ! 
A lion all men fear and none can tame ; 
A man that all men honor, and the 

model 
That all should follow ; one who works 

and prays, 
For work is prayer, and consecrates his 

life ^ ^ 
To the sublime ideal of his art, 
Till art and life are one ; a man who 

holds 
Such place in all men's thoughts, that 

when they speak 
Of great things done, or to be done, hia 

name 
is ever on their lips. 



418 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



JULIA. 

You too can paiut 
The portrait of your hero, aud in colors 
Brighter than Titian's ; I might warn 

you also 
Agaiust the daugers that beset your 

path ; 
But I forbear. 

VITTORIA. 

If I were made of marble, 
Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, 
He might admire me : being but flesh 

aud blood, 
I am no more to him than other women ; 
That is, am nothing. 

JULIA. 

Does he ride through Rome 
Upon his little mule, as he was wont, 
With his slouched hat, and boots of Cor- 
dovan, 
As when I saw him last ? 

VITTOKIA. 

Pray do not jest. 
I cannot couple with his noble name 
A trivial word ! Look, how the setting 

sun 
Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, 
And changes Capri to a purple cloud ! 
And there Vesuvius with its plume of 

smoke, 
And the great city stretched upon the 

shore 
As in a dream ! 

JULIA. 

Parthenope the Siren ! 

VITTORIA. 

And yon long line of lights, those sun- 
lit windows 

Blaze like the torches carried in pro- 
cession 

To do her honor ! It is beautiful ! 

JULIA. 

I have no heart to feel the beauty of it ! 
My feet are weary, pacing up and down 
These level flags, aud wearier still my 

thoughts 
Treading the broken pavement of the 

Past. 
It is too sad. I will go in and rest. 
And make me ready for to-morrow'3 

iourney. 



VITTORIA. 

I will go with you ; for I would not loss 
One hour of your dear presence. 'T ii 

enough 
Only to be in the same room w^ith you. 
I need not s))eak to you, nor hear yon 

speak ; 
If I but see you, I am satisfied. 

[They go in 

n. 

MONOLOGUE. 

Michael Angelo's Studio. He is ai 
work on the cartoon of the Last Jadg 
vient. 

3IICHAEL ANGELO. 

Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals 

Come here to lay this heavy task ujjou 
me ? 

Were not the paintings on the Sistine 
ceiling 

Enough for them ? They saw the He- 
brew leader 

Waitiuc:, and clutching his tempestuous 
beard, 

But heeded not. The bones of Julius 

Shook in their sepulchre. I heard tho 
sound ; 

They only heard the sound of their own 
voices. 

Are there no other artists here in Rome 
To do this work, that they must needs 

seek me ? 
Fra Bastian, my Fra Bastian, might 

have done it ; 
But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, 
Like leaden weights upon a dead man's 

eyes, 
Press down his lids ; and so the burden 

falls 
On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect 
And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. 
That is the title they cajole me with, 
To make me do their work and leave m; 

own ; 
But having once l)egun, I turn not back 
Blow, ye briglit angels, on your golden 

trumpets 
To the four corners of the earth, ano 

wake 
The dead to judgment ! Ye recording 

angels, 
Open your books and read I Ye deao 

awake I 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



419 



Rise from your graves, drowsy and 

drugged with death, 
As men who suddenly aroused from 

sleep 
Look round amazed, and kuow not 

where they are ! 

In happy hours, when the imagination 
Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the 

soul 
Tremhies in all its leaves, it is a joy 
To be uplifted on its wings, and listen 
To the prophetic voices in the air 
That call us onward. Then the work 

we do 
Is a delight, and the obedient hand 
Never grows weary. But how different 

is it 
In the disconsolate, discouraged hours. 
When all the wisdom of the world ap- 
pears 
As trivial as the gossip of a nurse 
In a sick-room, and all our work seems 
useless. 

What is it guides my hand, what 

thoughts possess me. 
That I have drawn her face among the 

angels, 
Wiiere she will be hereafter ? sweet 

dreams. 
That through the vacant chambers of 

my heart 
Walk in the silence, as familiar phan- 

ton)s 
frequent an ancient house, what will ye 

with me ? 
Tis said that Emperors write their 

names in green 
When under age, but when of age in 

purple. 
So Love, the greatest Emperor of them 

all, 
Writes his in green at first, but after- 
wards 
In the imperial purple of our blood. 
:?irst love or last love, — which of these 

two passions 
Js more omnipotent ? Which is more 

fair, 
The star of morning or the evening star ? 
The sunrise or the sunset of the heart ? 
Vhe hour when we look forth to the un- 
known, 
And the advancing day consumes the 

shadows, 
Dr that when all the landscape of our 

lives 



Lies stretched behind us, and familial 
places 

Gleam in the distance, and sweet mem- 
ories 

Kise like a tender haze, and magnify 

The objects we behold, that soon musi 
vanish ? 

What matters it to me, whose counte 

nance 
Is like the Laocoon's, full of pain ; whose 

forehead 
Is a ploughed harvest-field, where thr'je- 

score years 
Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in 

anguish ; 
To me, the artisan, to whom all women 
Have been as if they were not, or at most 
A sudden rush of pigeons in the air, 
A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a 

silence 1 
I am too old for love ; I am too old 
To flatter and delude myself with visions 
Of never-ending friendship with fair 

women, 
Imaginations, fantasies, illusions, 
In which the things that cannot be take 

shape. 
And seem to be, and for the moment 

are. [Conve7it bells ring. 

Distant and near and low and loud the 

bells, 
Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, 
Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, 
Discordant as the brotherhoods them- 
selves 
In their dim cloisters. The descending 

sun 
Seems to caress the city that he loves, 
And crowns it with the aureole of a 

saint. 
I will go forth and breathe the air a 
while. 

in. 

SAN SILVESTRO. 

A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestr-. 
on Monte Cavauo, 

VlTTORIA COLONNA, ClAUDIO To- 

LOMMEi, and others. 

VlTTORIA. 

Here let us rest a while, until the crowd 
Has left the church. I have already 

sent 
For Michael Angelo to join us here. 



420 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



MESSER CLAUDIO. 

After Fr.i Bernardino's wise discourse 
Ou the Pauliue Epistles, certainly 
Some words of Michael Angelo on Art 
Were not amiss, to bring- us back to 
earth. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, at the cIoO)'. 

How like a Saint or Goddess she ap- 
pears ; 
Diana or Madonna, which I know not ! 
In attitude and aspect formed to be 
At once the artist's worship and despair ! 

VITTORIA. 

Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for 
you. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I met your messenger upon the way, 
And hastened hither. 

VITTORIA. 

It is kind of you 
To come to us, who linger here like gos- 

sijjs 
Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. 
These are all friends of mine and friends 

of yours. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

If friends of yours, then are they friends 

of mine. 
Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I 

entered ' 

I saw but the Marchesa. 

VITTORIA. 

Take this scat 
Between me and SerClandio Tolommei, 
Who still n)aintains that our Italian 

ton^ne 
Should be called Tuscan. But for that 

offence 
We will not quarrel with him. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Eccellenza — 



VITTORIA. 

Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza 
And all such titles from the Tuscan 
toi>gue. 

MESSER CLAUDIO. 

*Tis the abuse of them and not the use 
I deprecate. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The use or the abuse 
It matters not. Let them all go to 

gether. 
As empty phrases and frivolities. 
And common as gold-lace upon the col 

lar 
Of an obsequious lackey. 

VITTORIA. 

That may bo. 
But something of politeness would gu 

with them ; 
We should lose something of the stateljf 

manners 
Of the old school 

MESSER CLAUDIO. 

Undoubtedly. 

VITTORIA. 

But that 
Is not what occupies my thoughts at 

present, 
Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele. 
it was to counsel me. His Holiness 
Has granted me permission, long desired, 
To build a convent in this neighbor- 
hood. 
Where the old tower is standing, from 

whose top 
Nero looked down upon the burning city. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

It is an inspiration ! 

VITTORIA. 

I am doubtful 
How I shall build; how large to make 

the convei.t, 
And which way fronting. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah, to build, to build 1 
Th:it is the noblest art of all the arts. 
Painting and sculpture are but images, 
Are merely shadows cast by outward 

things 
On stone or canvas, having in them 

selves 
No separate existence. Architecture, 
Existing in itself, and not in seeming 
A something it is not, surpasses them 
As substance shadow. Long, long yeai? 

ago, 
Standins; one morning near the Baths oj 

Titus, 
I saw the statue of Laocoon 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



421 



Rise from its grave of centuries, like a 

ghost 

Writhing in pain ; and as it tore away 

I'he knotted serpents from its limbs, I 
heard, 

Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony 

Fiom its white, parted lips. And still I 
marvel 

At the three Rhodian artists, by whose 
liands 

This miracle was wrought. Yet he be- 
holds 

Far nobler works who looks upon the 
riiius 

Of temples in the Forum here in Rome. 

If God should give me power in my old 
age 

To build for Him a temple half as grand 

As those were in their glory, I should 
count 

My age more excelleut than youth itself, 

And all that I have hitherto accom- 
plished 

As only vanity. 

VITTORIA. 

1 understand you. 
Art is the gift of God, and must be 

used 
Unto His glory. That in art is highest 
Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion 

blessed 
The horses of Italicns, they won 
The race at Gaza, for his benediction 
O'erpowered all magic; and the people 

shouted 
That Christ had conquered Marnas. So 

that art 
Which bears the consecration and the 

seal 
Of holiness upon it will prevail 
Over all others. Those few words of 

yours 
Inspire me with new confidence to build. 
What think you ? The old walls might 

serve, perhaps, 
Some purpose still. The tower can hold 

the bells. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

If strong enough. 

VITTORIA. 

If not, it can be strengthened. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I see no bar nor drawback tc this build- 
ing, 



And on our homeward way, if it shall 

please you. 
We may together view the site, 

VITTORIA. 

I thank yoik, 
I did not venture to request so n?uchu 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Let us now go to the old walls vot 

spake of, 
Vossignoria — 

VITTORIA. 

What, again. Maestro ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once 

more 
I use the ancient courtesies of speech. 
I am too old to change. 



IV. 

CARDINAL IPPOLITO. 

A richly furnished apartment in the Pal 
ace of Cardinal Ippolito. Night. 

Jacopo Nardi, an old man, alone. 

NARDI. 

I am bewildered. These Numidian 
slaves, 

In strange attire; these endless ante- 
chambers ; 

This lighted hall, with all its golden 
splendors. 

Pictures, and statues ! Can this be the 
dwelling 

Of a disciple of that lowly Man 

Who had not where to' lay his head? 
These statues 

Are not of Saints; nor is this a Ma- 
donna, 

This lovely face, that with such tender 
eyes 

Looks down upon me from the painted 
canvas. 

My heart begins to fail me. What can 
he 

Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome 

Care for the imperilled liberties of Flor- 
ence, 

Her people, her Republic ? Ah, the 
rich 

Feel not the pangs of banishment. AU 
doors 



42*? 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Are open to them, and all hands ex- 
tended, 

The poor alone are outcasts ; thev who 
risked 

All they possessed for liberty, and lost; 

And wander through the world without 
a friend, 

Sick, comfortless;, distressed, unknown, 
uucared for. 

fi^nter Cardinal Ippolito, in Spanish 

cloak and slouched hat, 

IPPOLITO. 

1 pray you pardon me that I have kept 

you 
Waiting so long alone. 



The Cardinal. 



I wait to see 



IPPOLITO. 

I am the Cardinal ; 
And you * 

NARDI. 

Jacopo Nardi. 

IPPOLITO. 

You are welcome. 
I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi 
Had told me of your coming. 

NARDI. 

'T was his son 
That brought me to your door. 



Pray you, be seated. 

You seem astonished at the garb I wear, 

But at my time of life, and with my 
habits. 

The petticoats of a Cardinal would be — 

Troublesome ; 1 could neither ride nor 
walk, 

Nor do a thousand things, if I were 
dressed 

Like an old dowager. It were putting 
wine 

Young as the young As»;yanax into gob- 
lets 

As old as Priam. 

NARDI. 

Oh, your Eminence 
Knows best what you should wear. 

IPPOLITO. 

Dear Messer Nardi, 



You are no stranger to me. I have reao 
Your excellent translation of the books 
Of Titus Livius, the historian 
Of Rome, and model of all historians 
That shall come after him. It does you 

honor; 
But g;reater honor still the love you beat 
To Florence, our dear country, and 

whose annals 
I hope your hand will write, in happier 

days 
Than we now see. 

NARDI. 

Your Emir^ence will pardon 
The lateness of the hour. 

IPPOLITO, 

The hours I count not 
As a sun-dial ; but am like a clock. 
That tells the time as well by night as 

day. 
So, no excuse. I know what briugs you 

here. 
You come to speak of Florence. 



NARDI. 



And her woes. 



The Duke, my cousin, the black Ales- 
sand ro, 

Whose mother was a Moorish slave, 
that fed 

The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, stili 
lives 

And reigns. 



Alas, that such a scourge 
Should fall on such a city 1 

IPPOLITO. 

When he dies, 
The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lo- 

renzo, 
The beast obscene, should be the monu- 
ment ' 
Of this bad man. 

NARDI. 

He walks the streets at night 
With revellers, insulting honest men. 
No house is sacred from iiis lusts. The 

convents 
Are turned by him to brothels, and th« 

honor 
Of women and all ancient pious custom) 



MJCHAEI, ANGELO. 



423 



Are quite forgotten now. The offices 
Of tlie Priori and Gonfalouieri 
Have been abolished. All the magis- 
trates 
Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. 
The very memory of all honest living 
Is wij)ed away, and even our Tuscan 

tongue 
Corrupted to a Lombard dialect. 

IPPOLITO. 

And worst of all his impious hand has 
broken 

The Marti nella, — our great battle bell, 

That, sounding through three centuries, 
has led 

The Florentines to victory, — lest its 
voice 

Should waken in their souls some mem- 
ory 

Of far-off times of glory. 



What a change 

Ten little years have made ! We all re- 
member 

Those better days, when Niccola Cap- 
poni, 

The Gonfaloniere, from the windows 

Of the Old Palace, with the blast of 
trumpets, 

Proclaimed to the inhabitants that 
Christ 

Was chosen King of Florence ; and al- 
ready 

Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in 
his stead 

Beigns Lucifer ! Alas, alas, for Flor- 
ence ! 

IPPOLITO. 

Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola ; 

Florence and France ! But I say Flor- 
ence only, 

Or only with the Emperor's hand to help 
us 

"^n sweeping out the rubbish. 

NARDI. 

Little hope 
Of help is there from him. He has be- 
trothed 
His daughter Margaret to this shameless 

Duke. 
What hope have we from such an Em- 
peror ? 



IPPOLITO. 

Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, 
Once the Duke's friends and intimate?. 

are with us, -^ 

And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. 
We shall soon see, then, as Valori says^ 
Whether the Duke can best spare hon 

est men, 
Or honest men the Duke. 



We have determined 
To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay 
Our griefs before the Emperor, though 

I fear 
More than I hope. 

IPPOLITO. 

The Emperor is busy 
With this new war against the Alge- 

rines. 
And has no time to listen to complaints 
From our ambassadors ; nor will I trusJ 

them, 
But go myself. All is in readiness 
For my departure, and to-morrow morn^ 

"iug 
I shall go down to Itri, where I meet 
Dante da Castiglione and some others. 
Republicans and fugitives from Flor- 

ence, 
And then take ship at Gaeta, and go 
To join the Emperor in his new crusade 
Against the Turk. I shall have time 

enough 
And opportunity to plead our cause. 

NARDI, rising. 

It is an inspiration, and I hail it 

As of good omen. May the power that 
sends it 

Bless our beloved country, and restore 

Its banished citizens. The soul of Flor 
ence 

Is now outside its gates. What lies 
within 

Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupt- 
ing. 

Heaven help us all. I Avill not tarrv 
longer, 

For you have need of rest. Good-night 



IPPOLITO, 



Good-night 



424 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Enter Fra Sebastiano; Turkish at- 
tendants. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence 
Contrasts with that of tlie spare JFloren- 

tiiie 
Who has just left me ! 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

As we passed each other, 
1 saw that he was weepiug. 



IFPOLITO. 



Poor old man I 

FRA 82BASTIANO. 

Who is he ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul ; 

One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best 
And noblest of them all ; but he has 

made me 
Sad with his sadness. As I look on you 
My heart grows lighter. I behold a 

man 
Who lives in an ideal world, apart 
From all the rude collisions of our life. 
In a calm atmosphere. 

FRA SEBASTIANa 

Your Eminence 
Is surely jesting. If you knew the life 
Of artists as I know it, you might think 
Far otherwise. 

IPPOLITO. 

But wherefore should I jest ? 
The world of art is an ideal world, — 
The world I love, and that I fain would 

live in ; 
So speak to me of artists and of art, 
Of all the painters, sculptors, and musi- 
cians 
That now illustrate Rome. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Of the musicians, 
I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro 
And chapel-master of his Holiness, 
Who trains the Papal choir. 

IPPOLITO. 

In churcli this morning, 
I listened to a mass of Goudimel, 
Divinely chanted. In tlie Incaruatus, 
In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang 



With infinite tenderness, in plain Italiai^ 
A Neapolitan love-song. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

You amaze me 
Was it a wanton song ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Not a divine one 
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know. 
In word or deed, yet such a song as that. 
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir. 
And in a Papal mass, seemed out oi 

place ; 
There 's something wrong in it. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

There *s something wrong 
In everything. We cannot make the 

world 
Go right. 'T is not my business to re- 
form 
The Papal choir. 

IPPOLITO. 

Nor mine, thank Heavens 
Then tell me of the artists. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Naming one 
I name them all ; for there is only one : 
His name is Messer Michael Angelo. 
All art and artists of the present day 
Centre in him. 

IPPOLITO. 

You count yourself as nothing ? 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Or less than nothing, since I am at best 
Only a portrait-painter ; one who draws 
With greater or less skill, as best he may. 
The features of a face. 

IPPOLITO. 

And you have had 
The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying 
Julia Gonzaga ! Do you count as notn- 

. ing 
A privilege like that? See there the 

portrait 
Rebuking you with its divine expression. 
Are you not peniteut ? He whose skilful 

hand 
Painted that lovely picture has not right 
To vilipeud the art of portrait-paintmg. 
But what of Michael Angelo ? 



FRA SEBASTIANO. 



But latel/ 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



425 



Strolling together down the crowded 
Corse, 

We stopped, well pleased, to see your 
Emiueuce 

Pass ou au Arab steed, a noble crea- 
ture, 

Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover 

Of all things beautiful, especially 

When they are Arab horses, much ad- 
mired. 

And could not praise enough. 

IPPOLITO, to an attendant. 

Hassan, to-morrow, 
When I am gone, but not till I am 

gone,— 
Be careful about that, — take Baiba- 

rossa 
To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculp- 
tor. 
Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, 
Near to the Capitol ; and take besides 
Some ten mule-loads of provender, and 

say 
Your master sends them to him as a 
present. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

A princely gift. Though Michael An- 

pelo 
Refuses presents from his Holiness, 
Yours he will not refuse. 

IPPOLITO. 

You think him like 
Thymoetes, who received the wooden 

horse 
Into the walls of Troy. That book of 

Virgil 
Have I translated in Italian verse. 
And shall, some day, when we have lei- 
sure for it. 
Be pleased to read vou. When I speak 

of Troy 
I am reminded of another town 
And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Count- 
ess 
Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely, 
The adventure with the corsair Barba- 

rossa. 
And all that followed ? 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

A most strange adventui'e ; 
A tale as marvellous and full of wonaer 
As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti ; 
Almost incredible 1 



IPPOLlJfO. 

Were I a painter 
I should not want a better theme than 

that : 
The lovely lady fleeing through the 

night 
In wild disorder ; and the brigands' 

camp 
With the red fire-light on their swarthj 

faces. 
Could you not paint it for me ? 



No, not I. 



FRA SEBASTIANO. 

It is not in my line. 

IPPOLITO. 

Then you shall paint 
The portrait of the corsair, when we 

bring him 
A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel 
Something like admiration for a man 
Who dared this strange adventure. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

I will do it 
But catch the corsair first. 

IPPOLITO. 

You may begin 

To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, 
come hither ; 

Bring me the Turkish scimitar that 
hanirs 

Beneath the picture yonder. Now un- 
sheathe it. 

'T is a Damascus blade ; you see the in- 
scription 

In Arabic : La Allah ilia Allah, — 

There is no God but God. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

How beautifnl 
In fashion and in finish ! It is perfect. 
The Arsenal of Venice cannot boast 
A finer sword. 

IPPOLITO. 

You like it ? It is yours. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

You do not mean it. 

IPPOLITO. 

I am not a Spaniard, 
To say that it is yours and not to mean 
it. 



426 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



I have at Itri a whole armory 

Full of such weapons. When you paint 

tlie portrait 
Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. 
You have not beeu rewarded as you 

should be 
For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this 

bauble 
Into the scale, and make the balance 

equal. 
Till then suspend it in your studio; 
You artists like such trifles. 

FEA SEBASTIAXO. 

I will keep it 
In memory of the donor. Many thanks. 



Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of 

Rome, 
The old dead city, with the old dead 

people ; 
Priests everywhere, like shadows on a 

wali,_ 
And morning, noon, and night the 

ceaseless sound 
Of convent bells. I must be gone from 

here; 
Though Ovid somewhere says that 

Kome is worthy 
To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, 
I must be gone from here. To-morrow 

morning 
I start fur Itri, and go thence by sea 
To join the Emperor, who is making 

war 
Upon the Algerines ; perhaps to sink 
Some Turkish galleys, and bring back 

in chains 
The famous corsair. Thus would I 

avenge 
The beautiful Gonzaga. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Ail achievement 
Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. 
Berni and Ariosto both shall add 
A canto to their poems, and describe 

you 
As Furioso and Innamorato. 
Now I must say good-night. 

IPPOLITO. 

You must not go ; 

First you shall sup with me. My senes- 
chal, 

Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepol- 
cro, —^ 



I like to give the whole sonorous nam% 
It sounds so like a verse of the ^neid, — 
Has brought me eels fresh from th^ 

Lake of !Foiidi, 
And Lucrine oysters cradled in theii 

shells : 
These, with red Fondi Avine, the Csecu 

ban 
That Horace speaks of, under a hundred 

keys 
Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus 
Shall stain the pavement with it, make #■ ' 

feast 
Fit for LucuUus, or Fra Bastian even ; 
So we will go to supper, and be merry. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Beware! Remember that Bolsena'si 

eels 
And Vernage wine once killed a Pope oi 

Rome ! 

IPPOLITO. 

'T was a French Pope ; and then so long 

ago ; 
Who knows ? — perhaps the story is nol 

true. 



BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT 

NAPLES. 
Room in the Palace of Julia Gonzaga. 

Night. 
Julia Gonzaga, Giovanni Valdesso. 

JULIA. 

Do not go yet. 

VALDESSO. 

The night is far advanced; 
I fear to stay too lato, and weary you 
With these discussions. 

JULIA. 

I have much to say. 

I speak to you, Valdesso, with that 
frankness 

Which is the greatest privilege of 
friendship, — 

Speak as I hardly would to my confes- 
sor, 

Such is my confidence in you. 



VALDESSO. 



Dear Counter 



I 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



427 



tf loyalty to frien<5ship be a claim 
Upon your confidence, <^hen I may claim 
it. 



Then sit again, ami listen unto things 
That nearer are to me than life itself. 

VALDESSO. 

In all things I am happy to obey you, 
And lia])piest then when you commaud 
me most. 

JULIA. 

Laying aside all useless rhetoric, 
That is superfluous between us two, 
I come at once unto the point, and say, 
You know my outward life, my raink 

and fortune ; 
Countess of Foudi, Duchess of Trajetto, 
A widow rich and flattered, for whose 

hand 
In marriage princes ask, and ask it only 
Ti^ be rejected. All the world can offer 
Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, 
It is noi in the way of idle boiisting. 
But only to the better understanding 
Of what comes after. 

VALDESSO. 

God hath given you also 
Beauty and intellect; and the signal 

grace 
To lead a spotless life amid temptations. 
That others yield to. 

JULIA. 

But the inward life, — 
That you know not ; 't is known but to 

myself, 
And is to me a mystery and a pain. 
A soul disquieted, and ill at ease, 
A mind perplexed with doubts and ap- 
prehensions, 
A heart dissatisfied with all around me, 
And with myself, so that sometimes I 

weep, 
Discouraged and disgusted with the 
world. 

VALDESSO. 

Whene'er we 2ross a river at a ford, 
If we would pass in safety, we must 

keep 
Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore 

beyond, 
for if we cast them on the flowing 

stream. 



The head swims with it ; so if we would 

cross 
The running flood of thiags here in the 

world. 
Our souls must not look down, but fix 

their sight 
On the firm land beyond. 

JULIA. 

I comprehend you^ 
You think I am too worldly; that my 

head 
Swims with the giddying whirl of life 

about me. 
Is that your meaning ? 

VALDESSO. 

Yes ; your meditations 
Are more of this world and its vanities 
Than of the world to come. 



Between the two 



I am confused. 



VALDESSO. 

Yet have I seen you listen 
Enraptured when Era Bernardino 

preached 
Of faith and hope and charity. 

JULIA. 

I listen, 
But only as to music without meaning. 
It moves me for the moment, audi think 
How beautiful it is to be a saint, 
As dear Vittoria is : but I am weak 
And wayward, and I soon fall back 

again 
To my old ways, so very easil}^ 
There are too manv week-davs for one 



Sunday. 



VALDESSO. 



Then take the Sunday with you through 

the week, 
And sweeten with it all the other days. 



In part I do so ; fen- to put a stop 

To idle tongues, what men might say of 

me 
If I lived all alone here in my palace, 
And not from a vocation that I feel 
For the monastic life, I now am living 
With Sister Caterina at the convert 
Of Santa Chiara, and I come here onlr 



428 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



On certain days, for my affairs, or visits 
Of cereiiiouy, or to be with friends. 
For i confess, ro live auionj^ my friends 
Is Paradi>e to me ; my rui}^atory 
Is living' among people I dislike. 
And so I pass my life in these two worlds, 
This palace and the coQvent. 

VALDESSO. 

It was then 
The fear of man, and not the love of 

God, 
That led you to this step- Why will you 

not 
Give all your heart to God ? 

JULIA. 

If God commands it, 
Wherefore hath He not made me capable 
Of doing for Hini what I wi>h to do 
As easily as I could offer Him 
This jewel from my hand, this gown I 

wear, 
Or aught else that is mine 1 

VALDESSO. 

Th? hindrance lies 
In that original sin, by which all fell. 



Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind 
To wish well to that Adam, our first 

parent. 
Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, 
And brought such ills upon us. 

VALDESSO. 

We ourselves, 
When we commit a sin, lose Paradise, 
As much as he did. Let us think of this. 
And how we may regain it. 

JULIA. 

Teach me, then, 
To harmonize the discord of my life, 
A^nd stop the painful jangle of these 
wires. 

VALDESSO. 

That is a task impossible, until 

Vou tune your heart-strings to a higher 

key 
Than earthly melodies. 

JULIA. 

How shall I do it ? 
point out to me the -^ay of this perfec- 
tiou. 



And I will follow you j for you have 

made 

My soul enamored with it, and I can- 
not 

Rest satisfied until I find it out. 

But lead me privately, so that the world 

Hear not my steps ; I would not give 
occasion 

Foif talk among the people. 

VALDESSO. 

Now ?wt last 
I understand' you fully. Then, what 

need 
Is there for us to beat about the bush? 
I know what you desire of me. 

JULIA. 

What rudeness ! 
If you already kiiow it, why not tell me 1 

VALDESSO. 

Because I rather wait for yoi: to ask it 
With your own lips. 

JULIA. 

Do me the kindness, then, 
To speak without reserve ; and with all 

frankness, 
If you divine the truth, will I confess it. 



VALDESSO. 



I am content. 



JULIA. 

Then speak. 

VALDESSO. 

You would be free 
From the vexatious thoughts that come 

and go 
Through your imagination, and would 

have me 
Point out some royal road and lady- like 
Which you may walk in, and not wound 

your feet ; 
You would attain to the divine perfec- 
tion. 
And yet not turn your back upon the 

world ; 
You would possess humility within. 
But not reveal it in your outward ac' 

tions ; 
You would have patience, but without 

the rude 
Occasions that require its exercise ; 
You would despise the world, but in «uci 

fashion 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



429 



The world sliould not despise you in re- 
turn ; 

Would clothe the soul with all the Chris- 
tian graces, 

Yet not despoil the body of its gauds ; 

Would feed the soul with spiritual food, 

Yet not deprive the body of its feasts; 

Would seem angelic in the sight of 
God, 

fet not too saint-like in the eyes of 
men ; 

tu short, would lead a holy Christian 
life 

In such a way that even your nearest 
friend 

Would not detect therein one circum- 
stance 

£o show a change from what it was be- 
fore. 

Have I divined your secret ? 



You have drawn 
The portrait of my inner self as truly 
As the most skilful painter ever painted 
A human face. 

VALDESSO. 

This warrants me in saying 
You think you can win heaven by com- 
promise, 
And not by verdict. 

JULIA 

You have often told me 
That a bad compromise was better even 
Than a good verdict.- 

VALDESSO. 

Yes, in suits at law ; 
Not in religion. With the human soul 
There is no compromise. By faith alone 
Can man be justified. 

JULIA. 

Hush, dear Valdcsso ; 

That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you. 

Proclaim it from the house-top, but pre- 
serve it 

As something precious, hidden in your 
heart, 

As I, who half believe and tremble at it. 

VALDESSO 

I must proclaim the truth 

uULIA. 



Why must you ? You imperil both 
yourself 

And friends by your imprudence. Pray, 
be patient. 

You have occasion now to show that vir- 
tue 

Which you lay stress upon. Let us re 
turn 

To our lost pathway. Show me by what 
steps 

I shall walk in it. 

[Convent bells me heard 

VALDESSO, 

Hark ! the convent bells 
Are ringing; it is midnight; 1 must 

leave you. 
And yet I linger. Pardon me, dea* 

Couutess, 
Since you to-night have made me you) 

confessor, 
If I so far may venture, I will warn yoc 
Upon one point, 

JULIA. 

What is it ? Speak, I pray you, 
For I have no concealments in my con? 

duct ; 
All is as open as the light of day. 
What is it you would warn me of "? 



VALDESSO. 



Your friendship 



Enthusi}»8t ! 



With Cardinal Ippolito. 

JULIA. 

What is there 
To cause suspicion or alarm in that, 
More than in friendships that I enter- 
tain 
With you and others ? I ne'er sat with 

him 
Alone at night, as I am sitting now 
With you, Valdesso. 

VALDESSO. 

Pardon me ; the portrait 
That Fra Bastiano painted was for him 
Is that quite prudent 1 

JULIA. 

That is the same question 
Vittoria put to me, when I last saw her. 
I make you the same answer. That was 

not 
A pledge of love, but of pure gratitude 
Recall the adventure of that drtadfa 

uight 



430 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



When Barbarossa with two thousand 

Moors 
r^anded upou the coast, and in the dark- 
ness 
Attacked my castle. Then, without de- 
lay, 
The Cardinal came hurrying down from 

]vome 
To rescue and protect me. Was it wrong 
That ill an hour like that I did not weigh 
Too nicely this or that, but granted him 
A boon that pleased him, and that flat- 
tered me ? 

VALDESSO. 

Only beware lest, in disguise of friend- 
ship 
Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, 
Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm 
But strategy. And now I take my leave. 

JULIA. 

Farewell ; but ere you go look forth and 
see 

How night hath hushed the clamor and 
the stir 

Of the tumultuous streets. The cloud- 
less moon 

Roofs the whole city as with tiles of sil- 
ver; 

The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps; 

And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts 

His plume of smoke. How beautiful it 
is ! [ Voices in the street. 

GIOVAN ANDREA. 

Poisoned at Itri. 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

Poisoned ? Who is poisoned ? 

GIOVAN ANDREA. 

The Cardinal Ippolito, my master. 
Call it malaria. It was very sudden. 

[Julia swoons. 

VI. 

VITTORIA COLONNA. 

A room in the Torre Argentina. 
ViTTORiA CoLONNA and Julia Gon- 

ZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 

Oome to my arms and to my heart once 
more ; 

M.y soul goes out to meet you and em- 
brace you. 



For we are of the sij^terhood of sorrow 
I know what you have suffered 



Name it not 



JULIA. 

Let me forget it. 

VITTORIA. 

I will say no more 
Let me look at you. What a joy it is 
To see your face, to hear your voice 

again ! 
You bring with you a breath as of the 

moru, 
A memory of the far-off happy days 
When we' were young. When did you 

come from Eondi ? 

JULIA. 

I have not been at Fondi since — 

VITTORIA. 

Ah me I 

You need not speak the word ; I under 



stand you. 



JULIA. 

I came from Naples by the lovely valley 
The Terra di Lavoro. 

VITTORIA. 

And you find me 
But just returned from a long journoj' 

northwards 
I have been staying with that nobl3 

woman 
Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrari. 

JULIA. 

Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have hear/* 
Flaminio speak her praises with sut 

warmth 
That I am eager to hear more of her 
And of her brilliant court. 

VITTORIA. 

You shall hear aF 
But first sit dov/n and listen patiently 
While I confess myself. 



Have you committed ? 



What deadly sis 



VITTORIA. 

Not a sin ; a folly 
I chid you once at Ischia, when you tch 
me 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



431 



f hat brave Fra Bastian was to paint 
your portrait. 

JULIA 

Well I remember it 

VITTOKIA. 

Then chide me now, 
For I confess to something still more 

strange. 
Old as I am, I have at last consented 
lo the entreaties and the supplications 
Of Michael Angelo — 

JULIA 

To marry him ? 

VITTORIA. 

I pray you, do not jest with me ! You 
know, 

Or you should know, that never such a 
thought 

Entered my breast. I am already mar- 
ried. 

The Marquis of Pescara is my husband. 

And death has not divorced us. 



JULIA. 



Have I offended you ? 



Pardon me. 



VITTORIA. 

No, but have hurt me. 
Unto my buried lord I give myself, 
Unto my friend the shadow of myself, 
My portrait. It is not from vanity, 
But for the love I bear him. 

JULIA. 

I rejoice 
To hear these words. Oh, this will be a 

portrait 
Worthy of both of you ! [A knock. 

VITTORIA. 

Hark ! he is coming. 

JULIA. 

And shall I go or stay ? 

VITTORIA. 

By all means, stay. 
The drawing will be better for your pres- 
ence; 
You will enliven me. 

JULIA. 

I shall not ?;)eak; 
The presence of great men doth' take 
ivozn me 



All power of speech. I only gaze at 

them 
In silent wonder, as if they were gods, 
Or the inhabitants of some other planet. 

Enter Michael Angelo. 



Come in. 



VITTORIA. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



I fear my visit is ill-timed ; 
I interrupt you. 

VITTORIA. 

No ; this is a friend 
Of yours as well as mine, — the Lady 

Julia, 
The Duchess of Trajetto. 

MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA. 

I salute you. 
'T is long since I have seen your face, ray 

lady ; 
Pardon me if I say that having seen it, 
One never can forget it. 

JULIA. 

You are kind 
To keep me in your memory. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



It 



The privilege of age to speak with frank- 
ness. 
You will not be offended when I say 
That never was your beauty more divine. 



When Michael Angelo condescends to 
flatter 

Or praise me, I am proud, and not of- 
fended. 

VITTORIA. 

Now this is gallantry enough for one ; 
Show me a little. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah, my gracious lady, 
You know I have not words to speak 

your praise. 
I think of you in silence. You conceal 
Your manifold perfections from all 

eyes, 
And make yourself more saint-like day 

by day. 
And day by day men worship you the 

mortj. 



432 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



But now your hour of martyrdom has 

come. 
Yon know why I am here. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah yes, I know it ; 
/^nd meet my fate with fortitude. You 

find me 
Surrounded by the labors of your hands : 
The Woman of Samaria at the Well, 
The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ 
Upon the Cross, beneath which you have 

written 
Those memorable words of Ali<^hieri, 
" Men have forgotten how much blood 

it costs." 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And now I come to add one labor more. 
If you will call that labor which is pleas- 
ure, 
And only pleasure. 

VITTORIA. 

How shall I be seated ? 
MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio. 

Just as you are. The light falls well 
upon you. 

VITTORIA. 

I am ashamed to steal the time from you 
That should be given to the Sistiue 

Chapel. 
How does that work go on 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing. 

But tardily. 
Old men work slowly. Brain and hand 

alike 
Are dull and torpid. To die young is 

best, 
And not to be remembered as old men 
Tottering about in their decrepitude. 

VITTORIA. 

My dear Maestro 1 have you, then, for- 
gotten 
The story of Sophocles in his old age 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

What story is it ? 

VITTORIA. 

When his sons accused him, 
Before the Areopagus, of dotage. 
For all defence, he read there to his 
Judijes 



The Tragedy of CEdipns Colonens, '- 
The work of his old age. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

*T is an illusion 
A fabnlous story, that will lead old men 
Into a thousand"^ follies and conceits. 

VITTORIA. 

So you may show to cavilers your paint 

ing 
Of the Last Judgment in the Sistiue 
Chapel. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Now you and Lady Julia .shall resume 
The conversation that I interrupted. 

VITTORIA. 

It was of no great import ; nothing more 
Nor less than my late visit to Fej-rara, 
And what 1 saw there in the ducal pal- 
ace. 
Will it not interrupt you 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Not the least. 

VITTORIA. 

Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole : a man 
Cold in his manners, and reserved and 

silent, 
And yet magnificent in all his ways ; 
Not hospitable unto new ideas. 
But from state policy, and certain rea- 
sons 
Concerning the investiture of the duchy, 
A partisan of Home, and consequentlj 
Intolerant of all the new opinions. 

JULIA. 

I should not like the Duke. These silem 

men, 
Who only look and listen, are like wells 
That have no water in them, deep and 

empty. 
How conhl the daughter of a king of 

France 
Wed such a duke ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The men that women marrj 
And why they marry them, will alway.- 

be 
A marvel and a mystery to the world. 

VITTORIA. 

And then the Duchess, — how shall I de 
scribe her. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



433 



Or tell the merits of that happy nature, 

Which pleases most when least it thinks 
of pleasing? 

Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and fea- 
ture, 

Yet witli an inward beauty, that shines 
through 

Each look and attitude and word and 
gesture; 

A kindly grace of manner and behav- 
ior, 

A something in her presence and her 
ways 

That makes her beautiful beyond the 
reach 

Of mere external beauty ; and in heart 

So noble and devoted to the truth, 

And so in sympathy with all who strive 

After the higher life. 



She draws me to her 
As much as her Duke Ercole repels me. 

VITTORIA. 

Then the devout and honorable women 
That grace her court, and make it good 

to be there ; 
Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, 
Lavinia delhi Kovere and the Orsiui, 
The Magdalena and the Clierubina, 
And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so 

sweetly ; 
All lovely women, full of noble thoughts 
And aspirations after noble things. 



Boccaccio would have envied you such 
dames. 

VITTORIA 

No ; his Fiammetfas and his Philomenas 
Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; 
i fear he hardly would have comprehen- 
ded 
The women that I speak of. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Yet he wrote 
The story of Griselda. That is some- 
thing 
To set down in his favor. 

VITTORIA. 

With these ladies 
Was a young g'rl, Olympia Morata, 
Daughter of Fnlvio, the learned scholar^ 
Famous in all the universities, • 



A marvellous child, who ? t tl . spinning- 
wheel, 

And in the daily round of household 
cares. 

Hath learned both Greek and Latin; 
and is now 

A favorite of the Duchess and compan 
ion 

Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young- 
Sappho 

Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes 

That she had written, with a voice whose 
sadness 

Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made 
me look 

Into the future ti ^-^e, and ask myself 

What destiny will be hers. 

JULIA. 

A. sad one, surely. 
Frost kills the flowers that blossom out 

of season ; 
And these i)recocious intellects portend 
A life of sorrow or an early death. 

VITTORIA. 

About the court were many learned 

men; 
Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, 
And Celio Curione. and Manzolli, 
The Duke's physician ; and a pale young 

man, 
Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the 

Duchess 
Doth much delight to talk with and to 

read, 
For he hath written a book of Institutes 
The Duchess greatly praises, though 

some call it 
The Koran of the heretics. 



And what poets 
Were (here to sing you madrigals, and 

praise 
Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses? 

VITTORIA. 

No ; for great Ariosto is no more. 
The voice that filled those halls with mel- 
ody 
Has long been hushed in death. 



Yon should have made 
A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb. 
And laid a wreath upon it, for the wcrcy 
He spake of you. 



434 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



VITTORIA. 



And of yourself no less, 
And of our master, Michael Angelo. 



Of me? 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



VITTORIA. 



Have you forgotten that he calls you 
Michael, less man than angel, and divine? 
You are ungrateful. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

A mere play on words. 
That adjective he wanted for a rhyme, 
To match with Giau Bellino and Urbino. 

VITTORIA. 

Bernardo Tasso is no louger there. 
Nor the gay troubadour of Gaseony, 
Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers 
The Prince of Poets and the Poet of 

Princes, 
Who, being looked upon with much dis- 
favor 
By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

There let nim stay with Pietro Aretino, 
The Scourge of Princes, also called Di- 
vine. 
The title is so common in our mouths. 
That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, 
Who play their bag-pipes in the streets 

of Rome 
At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, 
And will deserve it better than some po- 
ets. 

VITTORIA. 

What bee hath stung you '^ 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

One that makes no honey; 

One that comes buzzing in through ev- 
ery window, 

And stabs men with his sting. A bitter 
thought 

Passed through my mind, but it is gone 
again ; 

I spake too hastily. 



I pray you, show me 
What you have done. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Not yet ; it is not finished. 



TART SECOND- 

I. 

MONOLOGUE. 

A room in Michael Angelo's house. 

MICHAEL ANGKLO, 

Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city 
Where once an Emperor, humbled in 

his pride, 
Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness 
Alighted from his mule ! A fugitive 
From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls 
His thunders at the house of the Co- 

lonna, 
With endless bitterness! — Among the 

nuns 
In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, 
Herself in soul a nun! And now she 

chides me 
For my too frequent letters, that disturb 
Her meditations, and that hinder me 
And keep me from my work ; now gra- 
ciously 
She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, 
And says that she will keep it: with 

one hand 
Inflicts a wound, and with the other 

heals it. [Reading. 

" Profoundly I believed that God would 

grant you 
A supernatural faith to paint this 

Christ ; 
I wished for that which I now see ful- 
filled 
So marvellously, exceeding all my 

wishes. 
Nor more could be desired, or even so 

much. 
And greatly I rejoice that you have 

made 
The angel on the right so beautiful ; 
For the Archangel Michael will place 

you, 
You, Michael Angelo, on that new day 
Upon the Lord's right hand ! And 

waiting that. 
How can I better serve you than to pray 
To this sweet Christ for you, and to 

beseech you 
To hold me altogether yours in all , 

things." 

Well, I will write less often, or no more 

But wait her coming. No one born i» 

Rome 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



435 



Can live elsewhere ; but he must pine 

for Koine, 
And must return to it. I, who am born 
And bred a Tuscan and a Horeutiue, 
Feel rhe attraction, and I linger here 
As if I were a pebble in the pavement 
Trodden by priestly feet. This I en- 
dure, 
Because I breathe in Rome an atmos- 
phere 
Heavy with odors of tlie laurel leaves 
That crowned great heroes of the sword 

and ))en, 
In ages past. I feel myself exalted 
To walk the streets in which a Virgil 

walked, 
Or Trajan rode in triumph ; but far 

more, 
And most of all, because the great Co- 

lonna 
Breathes the same air I breathe, and is 

to me 
An inspiration. Now that she is gone, 
Rome is no longer Rome till she return. 
This feeling overmasters me. I know 

not 
If it be love, this strong desire to be 
Forever in her presence ; but I know 
That I, who was the friend of solitude. 
And ever was best pleased when most 

alone, 
Now weary grow of my own company. 
For the first time old age seems lonely 
to me. 

\Oppning the Divina Commedia. 
I turn for consolation to the leaves 
Of the great master of our Tuscan 

tongue, 
Whose wor<ls, like colored garnet-shirls 

in lava, 
Betray the heat in which they were en- 
gendered. 
A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread 
Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts 
With immortality. In courts of princes 
He was a by-word, and in streets of 

towns 
Was mocked by children, like the He- 
brew prophet, 
Himself a projjhet. I too know the cry, 
Go up, thou bald head ! from a genera- 
tion 
That, wanting reverence, wanteth the 

best food 
The soul can feed on. There 's not 

room enough 
For age and youth upon this little 
pHnet. 



Age must give way. There was not 
room enough 

Even for this great poet. In his song 

I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, 

Closing upon him, never more to open; 

But mingled with the sound are melo- 
dies 

Celestial from the gates of paradise. 

He came, and he is gone. Tiie people 
knew not 

What manner of man was passing by 
their doors. 

Until he passed no moi'e ; but in his 
vision 

He saw the torments and beatitudes 

Of souls condemned or pardoned, and 
hath left 

Behind him this sublime Apocalypse. 

I strive in vain to draw here on the 

mar<:in 
The face of Beatrice. It is not hers. 
But the Colonna's. Each hatli his ideal, 
The imaue of some woman excellent. 
That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor 

Roman, 
Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers. 



II. 
VITERBO. 

ViTTORiA CoLONNA at the coTivent win- 
dow. 

VITTORIA. 

Parting with friends is temporary death, 
As all death is. We see no more their 

faces. 
Nor hear their voices, save in memory ; 
But messages of love give us assurance 
That we are not forgotten. Who shall 

say 
That from the world of spirits comes no 

greeting, 
No message of remembrance ? It may 

be 
The thoughts that visit us, we know not 

whence, 
Sudden as insi)iration, are the whispers 
Of disenihodiid spirits, speaking to us 
As friends, who wait outside a prison 

wall, 
Through the barred windows speak to 

those within. [Jl pause. 

As quiet as thf^ lake that lies beneath 
me, 



486 



MICHAEL ANGELO, 



As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, 

As quiet as a heart that beats uo more, 

This convent seems. Above, below, all 
peace ! 

Silence and solitude, the soul's best 
friends, 

Are with me here, and the tumultuous 
world 

Makes no more noise than the remotest 
planet. 

O gentle spiiit, unto the third circle 

Of heaven among the blessed souls as- 
cended, 

Who, living in the faith aud dying for 
it. 

Have gone to their reward, I do not 
sigh 

For thee as being dead, but for my- 
self 

That I am still alive. Turn those dear 
eyes. 

Once so benignant to me, upon mine. 

That open to their tears such uncon- 
trolled 

And such continual issue. Still awhile 

Have patience ; I will come to thee at 
last. 

A ievf more goings in and out these 
doors, 

A few more chimings of these convent 
bells, 

A few more prayers, a few more sighs 
aud tears, 

And the long agony of this life will 
end, 

And I shall be with thee. If I am want- 
ing 

To thy well-being, as thou art to mine. 

Have patience ; I will come to thee at 
last. 

Ye minds that loiter in these cloister 
gardi-ns. 

Or wandLM- far above the city walls. 

Bear unto him this messaue, that I ever 

Or speak or think of him, or weep for 
him. 

By unseen hands uplifted in the light 

Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud 

Floats, with its white a])paa'l blown 
abroad. 

And wafted up to heaven. It fades 
away, 

And melts into the air. Ah, would 
that I 

Could thus be wafted unto thee, Fran- 
cesco, 

A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit I 



III 

MICHAEL ANGELO AND BEN* 
VENUTO CELLINI. 

Michael Angelo, Benvenuto Cei> 
LiNi in gay attire. 

BENVENUTO. 

A good day and good year to the divine 
Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Welcome, my Benvenuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

That is what 

My father said, the first time he beheld 
This handsome face. But say farewell, 

not welcome. 
I come to take my leave. I start for 

Florence 
As fast as horse can carry me. I long 
To set once more upon its level flags 
These feet, made sore by your vile Ro- 
man pavements. 
Come with me ; you are wanted there 

in Florence. 
The Sacristy is not finished. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Speak not of it I 
How damp and cold it was ! How my 

bones ached 
And my head reeled, when I was work- 
ing there ! 
I am too old, I will stay here in Rome, 
Where all is old aud crumbling, like 

myself, 
To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to 
Rome. 

BENVENUTO. 

And all lead out of it. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

There is a charm 
A certain something in the atmospiiere, 
That all men feel, and uo man can de 
scribe. 



Malaria ? 



BENVENUTO. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Yes, malaria of the mind, 
Out of this tomb of the majestic Past} 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



437 



The fever to accomplish some great 

work 
That will not let us sleep. I must go 

on 
Until I die. 

BENVENUTO. 

Do you ne'er think of Florence ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Yes; whenever 
I think of anything beside my work, 
I think of Florence. I remember, too, 
The bitter days I passed among the 

quarries 
Of Seravezza aud Pietrasauta ; 
Road-building in the marshes ; stupid 

people, 
And cold and rain incessant, and mad 

gusts 
Of mountain wind, like howling der- 
vishes, 
That spun and whirled the eddying 

snow about them 
As if it were a garment ; aye, vexations 
And troubles of all kinds, that ended 

only 
In loss of time and money. 

BENVENUTO. 

True; Maestro; 

But that was not in Florence. You 
should leave 

Such work to others. Sweeter memo- 
ries 

Cluster nbout you, in the pleasant city 

Upon the Arno. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

In my waking dreams 

J see the marvellous dome of Bruuel- 
Icschi, 

fihiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's 
tower ; 

And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides 

With folded hands amid my troubled 
thoughts, 

A splendid vision ! Time rides with the 
old 

^t a great pace. As travellers on swift 
steeds 

Bee the near landscape fly and flow be- 
hind them, 

While the remoter fields and dim hori- 
zons 

Go with tiiem, and seem wheeling round 
to meet tliem, 

So in old age things near us slip away, 



And distant things go with us. Pleas- 
antly 

Come back to me the days when, as a 
youth, 

I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gar- 
dens 

Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, 

The forms august of gods and godlike 
men, 

And the great world of art revealed 
itself 

To my young eyes. Then all that man 
hath done 

Seemed possible to me. Alas! how 
little 

Of all I dreamed of has my hand 
achieved I 

BENVENUTO. 

Nay, let the Night and Morning, let 
Lorenzo 

And Julian in the Sacristy at Flor- 
ence, 

Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine 
Chapel, 

And the Last Judgment answer. Is it 
finished 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The work is nearly done. But this 

Last Judgment 
Has been the cause of more vexation to 

me 
Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, 
Master of ceremonies at the Papal 

court, 
A man punctilious and over nice, 
Calls it improper; says that those nude 

forms, 
Showing their nakedness in such shame 

less fashion, 
Are better suited to a common bagnio, 
Or wayside wiue-shop, than a Papal 

Chapel. 
To punish him I painted him as Minos 
And leave him there as master of cere- 
monies 
In the Infernal Regions. What would 

you 
Have done to such a man 1 

BENVENUTO. 

I would have killed hincu 
When any one insults me, if I can 
I kill him, kill him. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Oh, you gentlemen. 



i38 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Who dress in silks and velvet.^, and 

wear swords, 
Are ready with your weapons, and have 

all 
A taste for homicide. 

BENVENUTO. 

I learned that lesson 

Under Pope Clement at the siege of 
Kome, 

Some twenty years ago. As I was 
standing 

Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo 

With Alessandro Bene, I beheld 

A sea of fog, that covered all the 
plain. 

And hid from us the foe ; when sud- 
denly, 

A misty figure, like an apparition, 

Rose up above the fog, as if on horse- 
back. 

At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired. 

The figure vanished ; and there rose a 
cry 

Out of tbe darkness, long and fierce and 
loud, 

With imprecations in all languages. 

It was the Constable of France, the 
Bourbon, 

That 1 liad slain. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Rome should be grateful to you. 

BENVENUTO. 

But has not been ; you shall hear pres- 
ently. 

During the siege I served as bombardier, 

There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, 

One day, was walking with his Cardi- 
nals 

On the round bastion, while I stood 
above 

Among my falconets. All thought and 
feeling, 

All skill in art and all desire of fame, 

Were swallowed up in the delightful 
music 

Of that artillery. I saw far off, 

\ '^ithin the enemy's trenches on the 
Prati, 

A Spam, li cavalier in scarlet cloak ; 

And firiu • at him with due aim and 
rangv', 

I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. 

The eyes are dry tliat wept for him in 
Spain. 

His Holiness, delighted beyond measure 



With such display of gunnery, and 
amazed 

To see the man in scarlet cut in two. 

Gave me his benediction, and absolved 
me 

From all the homicides I had commit- 
ted 

In service of the Apostolic Church, 

Or should commit ther'iafter. Frons 
that day ' 

I have not held in very h gh esteem 

The life of man. 

MICHAEL ANG3LO. 

And who absolved Pope Clement \ 
Now let us speak of Art. 

BENVENUTO. 

Of what you will 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Say, have you seen cur friend Fra 

Bastian lately, 
Since by a turn of fortune he became 
Friar of the Signet 1 

BENVENUTO. 

Faith, a pretty artist 
To pass his days in stamping leaden 

On Papal bulls ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

He has grown fat and lazy. 

As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. 

He paints no more, since he was sent to 
Fondi 

By Cardinal Ippolito to paint 

The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have 
seen him 

As I did, riding through the city gate. 

In his brown hood, attended by four 
horsemen. 

Completely armed, to frighten the ban- 
ditti. 

I think he would have frightened them 
alone, 

For he was rounder than the O of Giotto. 

BENVENUTO. 

He must have looked more like a sack 

of meal 
Than a great painter. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Well, he is not great 
But still Hike him greatly. Benvenutq 
Have faith in nothing but in induyjtry. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



439 



Be at it late and early ; persevere, 
And work rij^ht on through censure and 

applause, 
Or else abandon Art. 

BEX YE NUTO. 

No man works harder 
Than I do. I am not a moment idle. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And what have you to show me ? 

BENVENDTO. 

This gold ring, 
Made for his Holiness, — my latest 

work. 
And I am pioud of it. A single dia- 
mond, 
Presented by the Emperor to the Pope. 
Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it; 
I have reset it, and retinted it 
Divinely, as you see. The jewellers 
Say I 've surpassed Targhetta. 

MICHAEL. ANGELO. 

Let me see it. 
A pretty jewel. 

BENVENUTO. 

That is not the expression. 
Pretty is not a very pretty word 
To be applied to such a precious stone, 
Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and 

set 
By Benvenuto 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO 

Messer Benvenuto, 
1 lose all patience with you ; for the 

gifts 
That God hath given you are of such a 

kind, 
They should be put to far more noble 

uses 
Than setting diamonds for the Pope of 

Rome. 
Yoa can do greater things. 

BENVENUTO. 

The God who made me 
iCnows why he made me what I am, — 

a goldsmith, 
^ mere artificer. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Oh no ; an artist, 
Eichly endowed by nature, Out who 
virraps 



His talent in a napkin, and consumes 
His life in vanities. 

BENVENUTO. 

Michael Angelo 
May say what Benvenuto would not 

bear 
From any other man. He speaks the 

truth. 
I know my life is wasted and consumed 
In vanities ; but I have better hours 
And higher aspirations than you think. 
Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo, 
Fasting and praying in the midnight 

darkness. 
In a celestial vision I beheld 
A crucifix in the sun, of the same sub 
I stance 

As is the sun itself. And since that 

hour 
There is a splendor round about my 

head, 
That mav be seen at sunrise and at suu^ 

set 
Above my shadow on the grass. And 

now 
I know that I am in the grace of God, 
And none henceforth can harm me. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

None but one,— 
None but yourself, who are your great- 
est foe. 
He that respects himself is safe from 

others ; 
He wears a coat of mail that none can 
pierce. 

BENVENUTO. 

I alwavs wear one. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

O incorrigible ! 
At least, forget not the celestial vision. 
Man must have something higher than 

himself 
To think of. 

BENVENUTO. 

That I know full well. Now listen. 
I have been sent for into France, where 

grow 
The Lilies that illumine heaven and 

earth. 
And carry in mine equipage the model 
Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar 
For the king's table; and here in mv 

brain 



440 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



A statue of Mars Armipotent for the 
louutaiu 

Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. 

I go a goidsmiili, to return a sculptor. 

And so farewell, great Master. Think 
of me 

As one who, in the midst of all his fol- 
lies, 

Had also his ambition, and aspired 

Vo better things. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Do not forget the vision. 

[Sitting down again to the Divina 
Conimedia. 
Now in wliat circle of his poem sacred 
Would the great Florentine have placed 

this man ? 
Whether in Thlegethon, the river of 

blood, 
Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, 
I know not, but most surely not with 

those 
Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though 

he is one 
Whose ])assions, like a potent alkahest, 
Dissolve his better nature, he is not 
That despicable thing, a hypocrite ; 
He doth not cloak liis vices, nor deny 

them. 
Come back, my thoughts, from him to 

Paradise. 



IV. 

FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. 
Michael Angelo; Fra Sebastiano 

DEL PlOMBO. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. 
Who is it ? 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Wait, for I am out of breath 
[n climbing your steep stairs. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah, my Ba^^tiano, 
If you went up and down as many stairs 
As 1 do still, and climbed as many lad- 
ders. 
It would be better for you. Pray sit 

down. 
ITour idle and luxurious way of living 
Will one diiy take your breath away 

entirely. 
And you will never find it. 



FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Well, what tlien 1 
That would be better, in my apprehen 

sion. 
Than falling from a scaffold. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

That was nothing 
It did not kill rae ; only "lamed mb „ 

slightly ; 
I am quite well again. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

But why, dear Master, 
Why do you live so nigh up in your 

house. 
When you could live below and have a 

garden, 
As I do ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

From this window I can look 
On many gardens ; o'er the city roofs 
See the Campagna and the Alhan hills : 
And all are jnine. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Can you sit down in them, 
On summer afternoons, and play the 

lute, 
Or sing, or sleep the time away ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I never 
Sleep in the day-time ; scarcely sleep at 

night. 
I have not time. Did you meet Ben- 

venuto 
As you came up the stair 1 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

He ran against me 
On the first landing, going at full speed ; 
Dressed like the ISpauish captain in a 

play, 
With his long rapier and his short red 

cloak. 
Why hurry through the world at such 8 

pace 1 
Life will not be too long. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

It is his nature,-* 
A restless spirit, that consumes itself 
With useless a-itations. He o'erleaps 
The goal he aims at. Patience is *l 
plant 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



441 



That grows not iu all garaens. You 

are made 
Oi quite another clay. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

And thank God for it. 
And now, being somewhat rested, I will 

tell you 
Why I have climbed these formidable 

stairs. 
I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here, 
A very charming jioet and companion, 
Who greatly honors you and all your 

doings, 
And you must sup with us. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Not I, indeed. 
I know too well what artists' suppers 

are. 
You must excuse me. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

I will not excuse you. 
You need repose from your incessant 

work ; 
Some recreation, some bright hours of 

pleasure. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

To me, what you and other men call 

pleasure 
Is only pain. Work is my recreation. 
The play of faculty ; a delight like that 
Which a bird feels in fl\ in<:, or a tish 
In darting through the water, — noth- 
ing more. 
I cannot go. 'ihe Sibylline leaves of life 
Grow precious now, when only few re- 
main. 
I cannot go. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Berni, perhaps, will read 
A canto of the Orlando Inamorato. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

That is another reason for not going. 
If aught is tedious and intolerable, 
It is a poet reading his own verses. 

FRA SliBASTIANO. 

Berni thinks somewhat better of your 

versos 
Than you of his. He says that you 

speak things, 
And other poets words. So, praj you, 

come. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

If it were now the Iniprovisatore, 
Luigia Pulci, whom 1 used to hear 
With Benvenuto, in the streets of Floi^ 

ence, 
I might be tempted. I was younger 

then. 
And singing in the open air was pleas 

ant. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

There is a Frenchman here, named Ra 

belais. 
Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doc. 

tor. 
And secretary to the embassy : 
A learned man, who speaks all lan- 
guages. 
And wittiest of men ; who wrote a book 
Of the Adventures of Gargantua, 
So fnll of strange conceits one roara 

with laughter 
At every page ; a jovial boon-companion 
And lovLT of much wine. He too is 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Then you will not want me, who am not 

'witty, 
And have no sense of mirth, and lovt 

not wine. 
I should be like a dead man at your 

banquet. 
Why should I seek this Frenchman, 

Kabelais? 
And wherefore go to hear Francesco 

Berni, 
When 1 have Dante Alighieri here. 
The greatest of ail poets ? 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

And the dullest r 
And only to be read in episodes. 
His day is past. Petrarca is our poet. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Petrarca is for women and for lovers 
And for those soft Abati, who delight 
To wander down long garden walks in 

summer, 
Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, 
As lap dogs do their bells. 

FRA SEFASTIANO. 

I love Petrarca. 
Ho\^ sweetly of his absent love he 
sings 



442 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



When journeying in the forest of Ar- 
dennes ! 

" I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs 
and breezes 

And leaves and birds lamenting, and the 
waters 

Murmuring flee along the verdant herb- 
age." 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Enough. It is all seeming, and no be- 
ing. 

If you would know how a man speaks 
in earnest. 

Read here this passage, where St. Peter 
thunders 

In Paradise against degenerate Popes 

And the corruptions of the ckureli, till 
all 

The heaven about him blushes like a 
sunset. 

I beg you to take note of what he 
says 

About the Papal seals, for that concerns 

Your office and yourself. 

FRA SEBASTIANO, reading. 

Is this the passage ? 
" Nor I be made tlie figure of a seal 
To privileges venal and mendacious; 
Whereat I often redden and flash with 

Srel" — 
That is not poetry. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

What is it, then ? 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Vituperation ; gall that might have 

spirted 
^Vom Aretino's pen. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Name not that man ! 

A profligate, whom your Francesco 
Berui 

Describes as having one foot id the 
brothel 

And the other in the hospital ; wt o 
lives 

By flattering or maligning, as best ser /es 

His purpose at the time. He writes to 
me 

With easy arrogance of my Last Judg- 
ment, 

In such familiar tone that one would 
say 

Tlio great event already had occurred; 



And he was present, and from observa 

tiou 
Informed me how the picture should be 

painted. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

What unassuming, unobtrusive men 
These critics are ! Now, to have Arf 

tiuo 
Aiming his shafts at you brings back te 

mind 
The Gascon archers in the square oi 

Milan, 
Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's 

statue, 
By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble 
Of envious Florentines, that at youi 

David 
Threw stones at night. But Aretino 

praised you. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

His praises were ironical. He knows 
How to use words as weapons, and to 

wound 
While seeming to defend. But look, 

Bastiano, 
See how the setting sun lights up that 

picture ! 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

My portrait of Vittoria Colonna. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

It makes her look as she will look here* 

after, 
When she becomes a saint ! 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

A noble woman 1 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah, these old hands can fashion fairei 

shapes 
In marble, and can paint diviner pic* 

tures. 
Since I have known her. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

And yon like this picture » 
And yet it is in oils, which you detest. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck 

discovered 
The use of oil in painting, he degraded 
His art into a handicraft, and made it 
Sign-painting, merely, for a country inp 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



448 



Or wayside wine-shop. 'Tis an art for 

women, 
Or for such leisurely aud idle people 
As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints 

not; 
In oils, but frescoes the great dome of 

heaven 
With sunsets, and the lovely forms of 

clouds 
And flying vapors. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

And how soon they fade ! 
Behold yon line of roofs and belfries 

painted 
Upon the golden background of the 

sky, 
Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait 
Of Cimabue. See how hard the out- 

line. 
Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into 

shadow. 
Yet that is nature. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

She is always right. 
The picture that approaches sculpture 

nearest 
Is the best picture. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Leonardo thinks 
The open air too bright. We ought to 

paint 
As if the sun were shining through a 

mist. 
*T is easier done in oil than in distem- 
per. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ilo not revive again the old dispute ; 

I have an excellent memory for forget- 
ting, 

But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are 
not healed 

By the unbending of the bow that made 
them. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

So say Petrarca and the ancient prov- 
erb 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

But that is past. Now I am angry with 

Not that you paint in oils, but that, 

grown fat 
And indolent, you do not paint at all. 



FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Why should I paint ? Why should I 

toil and sweat, 
Who now am rich enough to live at 

case, 
And take my pleasure ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

When Pope Leo died, 
He who had been so lavish of the 

wealth 
His predecessors left him, who received 
A basket of gold-pieces every morning, 
Which every night was emj^ty, left be- 
hind 
Hardly enough to pay his funeral. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

I care for banquets, not for funerals. 
As did his Holiness. I have forbidden 
All tapers at ncy burial, and procession 
Of priests and friars and monks ; and 

have provided 
The cost thereof be given to the poor ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

You have done wisely, but of that I 

speak not. 
Ghiberti left behind him wealth and chil- 
dren ; 
But -who to-day would know that he had 

lived, 
If he had never made those gates of 

bronze 
In the old Baptistery, — those gates of 

bronze, 
Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. 
His wealth is scattered to the winds ; his 

children 
Are long since dead; but those celestial 

gates 
Survive, aud keep his name and memory 

green. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

But why should I fatigue myself ? 1 

think 
That all things it is possible to paint 
Have been already painted ; and if not, 
Why, there are painters in the world at 

present 
Who can accomplish more in two short 

months 
Than I could in two years ; so it is welJ 
That some one is contented to do noth 

And leave the field to others. 



444 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

blasphemer ! 
Not without reason do the people call 

you 
Sebastiau del Piombo, for the lead 
Of all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you, 
And Avraps you like a shroud. 

FRA SEBASTIANO. 

Misericordia \ 
Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and 

sharp 
The words you speak, because the heart 

within you 
Is sweet unto the core. 

MICHAEL AXGELO. 

How chanj^ed you are 
From the Sebastiano I once knew, 
When poor, ]al)orious, emulous to excel, 
Yo\x strove in rivalry with Badassare 
And Raphael Sanzio. 

ERA SEBASTIANO. 

Raphael is dead ; 
He is but dust and ashes in his grave, 
While I am living and enjoying life, 
And so am victor. One live Pope is 

worth 
A dozen dead ones. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Raphael is not dead ; 

He doth but sleep ; for how can he be 
dead 

Who lives immortal in the hearts of 
men? 

He only drank the precious wine of 
youth, 

The outbreak of the grapes, before the 
vintage 

Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of 
men. 

The gods have given him sleep. We 
never were 

Nor could be foes, although our follow- 
ers, 

Who are distorted shadows of ourselves, 

Have striven to make us so ; but each 
one worked 

Unconsciously upon the other's thoughts, 

Both giving and receiving. He per- 
chance 

Caught strength from mc, and I some 
grearer sweetness 

And tenderness from his more gentle na- 
ture. 



I have but words of praise and admira- 
tion 

For his great genius ; and the world is 
fairer 

That he lived in it. 

ERA SEBASTIANO. 

We at least are friends i 
So come with me. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

No, no ; I am best pleased 
When I'm not asked to banquets. I 

have reached 
A time of life when daily walks are 

shortened, 
And even the houses of our dearest 

friends, 
That used to be so near, seem far away. 



ERA SEBASTIANO. 



We 



Then we must sup without you. 

shall laugh 
At those who toil for fame, and make 

their lives 
A tedious martyrdom, that they may 

live 
A little longer in the mouths of men I 
And so, good-night. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Goodnight.my Fra Bastiano 

1 Returning to his work 

How will men speak of me when I am 

gone, 
When all this colorless, sad life is ended, 
And I am dust ? They will remember 

only 
The wrinkled forehead, the marred 

countenance, 
The rudeness of my speech, and my 

rough manners, 
And never dream that underneath them 

all 
There was a woman's heart of tender- 

ness. 
They will not knov; the secret of my 

life. 
Locked up in silence, or but vaguely 

hinted 
In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance 

survive 
Some little space in memories of men ! 
Each one perforins his life-work, and 

then leaves, it ; 
Those that come after him will estimate 
His influence on the age in which he 

lived. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



445 



V. 



MICHAEL ANGELO AND TITIAN. 

Palazzo Belvedere. Titian's studio. A 
painting of Danae uith a curtain before 
it. Titian, Michael Angelo, and 
GiOKGio Vasari. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

So you have left at last your still la- 
goons, 
Your City of Silence floating in the sea, 
And come to us in Kome. 



I come to learn, 
But I have come too late. I should 

have seen 
Rome in my youth, when all my mind 

was oprn 
To new impressions. Our Vasari here 
Leads me about, a blind man, groping 

darkly 
Among the marvels of the past. I touch 

them. 
But do not see them. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

There are things in Rome 
That one might walk bare-footed here 

from Venice 
But to see once, and then to die content. 

TITIAN. 

I must confess that these majestic ruins 
Oppress me with their gloom. I feel 

as one 
Who in the twilight stumbles among 

tombs. 
And cannot read the inscriptions carved 

upon them. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I felt so oDce ; but I have grown fa- 
miliar 
With desolation, and it has become 
No more a pain to me, but a delight. 

TITIAN. 

I could not live here. I must have the 
sea, 

And the sea-mist, with sunshine inter- 
woven 

Like cloth of gold ; must have beneath 
my windows 



The laughter of the waves, and at my 

dour 
Their pattering footsteps, or I am not 

happy. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Then tell me of your city in the sea, 
Paved with red basalt of the Paduan 

hills. 
Tell me of art in Venice. Three great 

names, 
Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, 
Illustrate your Venetian school, and 

send 
A challenge to- the world. The first is 

dead. 
But Tintoretto lives. 

TfriAN. 

And paints with fire, 
Sudden and splendid, as the lightning 

paints 
The cloudy vault of heaven. 



Does he still keep 
Above his door the arrogant inscription 
That once was painted there, — "The 

color of Titian, 
With the design of Michael Angelo " 1 



Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish 

boast, 
And does no harm to any but himself. 
Perhaps he has grown wiser. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

When you two 
Are gone, who is there that remains be- 
hind 
To seize the pencil falling from your 
fingers'? 

GIORGIO. 

Oh there are many hands upraised al- 
ready 

To clutch at such a prize, which hardly 
wait 

For death to loose your grasp, — a hun- 
dred of them : 

Schiavone, Bonifa/.io, Campagnola, 

Moretto, and Moroni ; who can count 
them, 

Or measure their ambition ? 



TITIAN. 

When we are gonei, 



446 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



The generation that comes after us 
Will have far other thoughts than ours. 

Our ruins 
Will serve to build their palaces or 

tombs. 
They will possess the world that we 

think ours. 
And i'ashion it far otherwise. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I hear 
Your son Orazio and your nephew Marco 
Mentioned with honor. 



Ay, brave lads, brave lads. 
But time will show. There is a youth 

in Venice, 
One Puul Cagliari, called the Veronese, 
lytill a mere stripling, but of such rare 

promise 
That we must guard our laurels, or may 

lose them. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

These are good tidings ; for I sometimes 

fear 
That, when we die, with us all art will 

die. 
T is but a fancy. Nature will provide 
Others to take our places. I rejoice 
To see the young spring forward in the 

race, 
Eager as we were, and as full of hope 
And the sublime audacity of youth. 

TITIAN. 

Men die and are forgotten. The great 

world 
Goes on the same. Among the myriads 
Of men that live, or have lived, or shall 

live, 
What is a single life, or thine or mine. 
Thai; we should think all nature would 

stand still 
If we were gone ? We must make room 

for othei-s. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And now. Maestro, pray unveil your 

picture 
Of Danue, of which I hear such praise. 

TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain. 
What think you ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

That Acrisius did well 



To lock such beauty in a brazen tower, jj 
And hide it from all eyes. 



Was beautiful. 



The model truly 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And more, that you were present, 
And saw the showery Jove from high 

Olympus 
Descend in all his splendor. 

TITIAN. 

From your lips 
Such words are full of sweetness. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

You have caught 
These golden hues from your Venetian 
sunsets. 

TITIAN. 

Possibly. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Or from sunshine through a shower 
On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. 
Nature reveals herself in all our arts. 
The pavements and the palaces of cities 
Hint at the nature of the neighboring 

hills. 
Red lavas from the Euganean quarries 
Of Padua pave your streets ; your pal- 
aces 
Are the white stones of Istria, ant- 
gleam 
Reflected in your waters and your pic- 
tures. 
And thus the works of every artist sho\ 
Something of his surroundings and hia 

habits. 
The uttermost that can be reached bj 

color 
Is here accomplished. Warmth and 

light and softness 
Mingle together. Never yet was flesh 
Painted by hand of artist, dead or living. 
With such divine perfection. 

TITIAN. 

I am grateful 
For so much praise from you, who are 

a master; 
While mostly those who praise and those 

who blame 
Know nothing of the matter, so that 

mainly 
Their censure sounds like praise, their 

praise like censure. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



447 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Wonderful ! wonderful ! The charm of 

color 
Fascinates me the more that in myself 
The gift is wanting. I am not a painter. 

GIOKGIO. 

Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, 
Not one alone ; and therefore 1 may 

venture 
To put a question to you. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Well, speak on. 

GIORGIO. 

Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese 
Have made me umpire in dispute be- 
tween them 
Which is the greater of the sister arts. 
Painting or sculpture. Solve for me 
the doubt. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Sculpture and painting have a common 

goal, 
And whosoever would attain to it, 
Whichever path he take, will find that 

goal 
Equally hard to reach. 

GIORGIO. 

No doubt, no doubt ; 
But you evade the question. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

When I stand 
In presence of this picture, I concede 
That painting has attained its uttermost ; 
3ut in the presence of my sculptured 

figures 
I feel that my conception soars beyond 
All limit I have reached. 

GIORGIO. 

You still evade me. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Giorgio Vasari, I have often said 

That I account that painting as the 
best 

Which most resembles sculpture. Here 
before us 

We have the proof. Behold those 
rounded limbs ! 

How from the canvas they detach them- 
selves, 



Till they deceive the eye, and one would 

say, 
It is a statue with a screen behind it ! 

TITIAN. 

Signori, pardon me ; but all such ques- 
tions 
Seem to me idle. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Idle as the wind. 
And now. Maestro, I will say once more 
How admirable I esteem your work. 
And leave you, without further inter- 
ruption. 

TITIAN. 

Your friendly visit hath much honored 
me. 



GIORGIO. 



Farewell. 



MICHAEL ANGELO tO GIORGIO, gOlTig OUf. 

If the Venetian painters knew 
But half as much of drawing as of 

color, 
They would indeed work miracles in 

art, 
And the world see what it hath never 

seen. 

VI. 
PALAZZO CESARINI. 

ViTTORiA CoLONNA, Seated in an arm- 
chair; Julia Gonzaga, standing near 
her. 



It grieves me that I find you still so 

weak 
And suficring. 

VITTOKIA. 

No, not suffering ; only dying. 
Death is the chilluess that preced.'s the 

dawn ; 
We shudder for a moment, then aw{ ke 
In the broad sunshine of the other life. 
I am a shadow, merely, and these hands. 
These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses 

that my husband 
Once thought so beautiful, and I was 

proud of 
Because he thought them so, are faded 

quite, — 
All beauty gone from them. 



448 



MICHAEL ANGELO, 



Ah, no, not that. 
Paler yon are, but not less beautiful. 

VITTORIA. 

Hand me the mirror. I would fain be- 
hold 

What change comes o'er our features 
when we die. 

Thank you. And now sit down beside 
me here. 

How glad I am that you have come to- 
day, 

Above all other days, and at the hour 

When most I need you I 

JULIA. 

Do you ever need me ? 

VITTORIA. 

Always, and most of all to-day and 

now. 
Do you remember, Julia, when we 

walked, 
One afternoon, upon the castle terrace 
At Ischia, on the day before you left 

me? 

JULIA. 

Well I remember ; but it seems to me 
Something unreal, that has never 

been, — 
Something that I have read of in a 

book, 
Or heard of some one else. 

VITTORIA. 

Ten years and more 
Have passed since then ; and many 

things have happened 
In those ten years, and many friends 

ha^e died : 
Marco F/amiuio, whom we all admired 
And IfVed as our Catullus; dear Val- 

desso, 
The joble champion of free thought and 

speech ; 
^ jd Cardinal Ippolito, your friend. 



Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden 

death 
O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me 

then. 
Let me forget it ; for my memory 
Serves me too often as an unkind 

friend. 



And I remember things I would forget^ 
Wliilf I forget the things I would r& 
member. 

VITTORIA. 

Forgive me ; I will speak of him nc 

more, 
The good Fra Bernardino has departed, 
Has fled from Italy, and crossed the 

Alps, 
Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he 

taught 
That He who made us all without our 

help 
Could also save us without aid of ours. 
Eene'e of France, the Duchess of Fer- 

rara. 
That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by 

winds 
That blow from Home ; Olympia Mo- 

rata 
Banished from court because of thi? 

new doctrine. 
Therefore be cautious. Keep your se- 
cret thought 
Locked in your breast. 

JULIA. 

I will be very prudent 
But speak no more, I pray ; it wearies 
you. 

VITTORIA. 

Yes, I am very weary. Read to me. 

JULIA. 

Most willingly. What shall I read ? 

VITTORIA. 

Petrarca*£ 
Triumph of Death. The book lies on 

the table ; 
Beside the casket there. Read where 

you find 
The leaf turned down. 'Twas there I 

left off reading. 

JULIA, reads. 

" Not as a flame that by some force ifl 

spent, 
But one that of itself consumetb 

quite, 
Departed hence in peace the souj 

content. 
In fashion of a .soft and lucent light 
Whose nutriment by slow gradation 

goes. 
Keeping until the end its lustre 

bright. 



MICHJiEL ANGELO. 



449 



Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of 

suows 
That without wind on some fair 

hill-top lies, 
Her weary body seemed to find re- 
pose. 
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely 

eyes, 
When now the spirit was no longer 

there, 
Was what is dying called by the 

unwise. 
E'en Death itself in her fair face 

seemed fair." — 

Is it of Laura that he here is speak- 
ing?— 
She doth not; answer, yet is not asleep; 
Her eyes are full of light and fixed on 

something- 
Above her in the air. I can see naught 
Except the painted angels on the ceil- 
ing. 
Vittoria! speak! What is it? An- 
swer me ! — 
She only smiles, and stretches out her 



[ The mirror falls and breaks. 

VITTORIA. 

Not disobedient to the heavenly vision ! 
Pescara ! my Pescara ! \Dies 

JULIA. 

Holy Virgin ! 
Her body sinks together, — she is 
dead ! 
[Kneels, and hides her face in Vitto- 
ria' s lap. 

Enter Michael Angelo. 

JULIA. 

Hush I n?ake no noise. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

How is she ? 

JULIA. 

Never better. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Then she is dead ! 

JULIA. 

Alas ! yes, she is dead I 
Even death itself in her fair face seems 
fair. 

90 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

How wonderful ! The light upon her 

face 
Shines from the windows of another 

world. 
Saints only have such faces. Holy 

Angels ! 
Bear her like sainted Catherine to her 

rest 1 [Kisses Vittoria' s hand 



PART THIRD. 

I. 

MONOLOGUE. 

Macello de' Corvi. A room in Michael 
Angelo's house. Michael Angelo, 
standing before a model (f St. Peter's. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, 

And lej^s than thou I will not ! If the 
thought 

Could, like a windlass, lift the ponder- 
ous stones. 

And swing them to their places ; if a 
breath 

Could blow this rounded dome into the 
air. 

As if it were a bubble, and these stat- 
ues 

Spring at a signal to their sacred sta- 
tions, 

As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. 

Then were my task completed. Now, 
alas ! 

Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, hold- 
ing 

Upon his hand the model of a church. 

As German artists paint him ; and what 
years, 

What weary years, must drag them- 
selves along, 

Ere this be turned to stone ! What 
hindrances 

Must block the way ; what idle interfer- 
ences 

Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, 

Who nothing know of art beyond the 
color 

Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any 
building 

Save that of their own fortunes I And 
what then ? 



450 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



I must then the short-coming of my 
means 

Piece out by stepping forward, as the 
Spartan 

Was told, to add a step to his «W ft sword. 
I A pause. 

And is Fra Bastian dead 1 Is all that 
light 

Gone out, that sunshine d?irkened ; all 
that music 

And merriment, that used to make our 
lives 

Less mehiucholy, swallowed up in si- 
lence 

Like ma<lrigals sung in the street at 
night 

By passing revellers ? It is strange in- 
deed 

That he should die before me. 'T is 
against 

The laws of nature that the young 
should die, 

And the old live ; unless it be that some 

Have loui; been dead who think them- 
selves alive, 

Because not buried. Well, what mat- 
ters it, 

Since now that greater light, that was 
my sun, 

Is set, and all is darkness, all is dark- 
ness ! 

Death's lightnings strike to right and 
left of me. 

And, like a ruined wall, the world around 
me 

Crumbles away, and I am left alone. 

I have no friend^, and want none. My 
own thoughts 

Are now my sole companions, — thoughts 
of her, 

That like a benediction from the skies 

Come to me m my solitude and soothe 
me. 

When men are old, the incessant thought 
of Death 

Follows thera like their shadow ; sits 
with them 

At every med ; sleeps with them when 
they sleep ; 

And when they wake already is awake, 

And stand'ng by their bedsfde. Then, 
wha.t folly 

It is in us to make an enemy 

01 this importunate follower, not a 
friend ! 

To me a friend, and not an enemy, 

Has he becoiue since all my friends are 
dead. 



n. 

VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO. 

Pope Julius III. seated by the Fountah 
of Acfjua Vergine, surrounded by Car 
dinals. 



Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, 
You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, 
With Michael Angelo ? What has he 

done, 
Or left undone, that ye are set against 

him i 
When one Pope dies, another is soon 

made ; 
And I can make a dozen Cardinals, 
But cannot make one Michael Angelo. 

CARDIXAL SALVIATI. 

Your Holiness, we are not set againsi 

him ; 
We but deplore his incapacity. 
He is too old. 



You, Cardinal Salviati, 
Are an old man. Are you incapable? 
'T is the old ox that draws the straight- 
est furrow. 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

Your Holiness remembers he was 

charged 
With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge ; 
Made cofferdams, and heaped up load 

on load 
Of timber and travertine; and yet for 

years 
The bridge remained unfinished, till wej 

gave it 
To Baccio Bigio. 

JULIUS. 

Always Baccio Bijriolj 
Is there no other architect on earth ? 
Was it not he that sometime had inj 

charge 
The harbor of Ancona. 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

Ay, the same 

JULIUS. 

Then let me tell you that your Baccif 

Biuio 
Did greater damage in a single day 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



451 



To that fair harbor than the sea had 

doue 

Or would do iu ten years. Andhimyou 
tluiik 

To put in place of Michael Angelo, 

In building the Basilica of St. Jfcter ! 

The ass that, thiuks himself a stag dis- 
covers 

His error when he comes to leap the 
ditch. 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

He does not build ; he but demolishes 
The labors of Uramante and !San Gallo. 

JULIUS. 

Only to build more grandly, 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

But time passes : 
Year after year goes by, and yet the 

work 
Is not completed. Michael Angelo 
Is a great sculptor, but no architect. 
His plans are. faulty. 

JULIUS. 

I have seen his model, 
And have approved it. But here comes 

the artist. 
Beware of him. He may make Persians 

of you, 
To carry isurdens on your backs forever. 

The same: Michael Angelo. 

JULIUS. 

Come forward, dear Maestro ! In these 

gnrdens 
All ceremonies of our court are banished. 
Sit down beside me here. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, Sitting down. 

How frrnciously 
Your Holiness commiserates old age 
And 'ts infirmities ! 

JULIUS. 

Say its privileges. 
Art I respect. The building of this 

palace 
And layinir out these pleasant garden 

walks 
Are my delight, and if I have not asked 
Your aid in this, it is that I forbear 
To lay new l)urdens on you at an age 
When you need rest. Here I escape 

from Rome 



To be at peace. The tumult of the city 
Scarce reaches here. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Hi>w beautiful it is, 
And quiet almost as a hermitage ! 

JULIUS. 

We live as hermits here ; and from 

these heights 
O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow 

Tiber 
Cleaving iu twain the city, like a sword, 
As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. 
What think you of that bridg'e? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I would advise 
Your Holiness not to cross it, or not of. 

ten ; 
It is not safe. 

JULIUS. 

It was repaired of late. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Some morning you will look for it in 

vain ; 
It will be gone. The current of the 

river 
Is undermining it. 

JULIUS. 

But you repaired it. 

JIICHAEL ANGELO. 

I Strengthened all its piers, and paved 

its I'oad 
With travertine. He who came after 

me 
Removed the sto'ie, and sold it, and filled 

in 
The space with gravel. 

JULIUS. 

Cardinal Ralviati 
And Cardinal Marcello, do you listen 1 
This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. 

There is some mystery here. These 

Cardinals 
Stand lowering at me with unfriendly 

eyes. 

JULIUS. 

Now let us come to what concerns ds 
more 



452 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Than bridge or gardens. Some com- 
plaints are made 

Concerning the Three Chapels in St. 
Peter's; 

Certain supposed defects or imperfec- 
tions, 

You doubtless can explain. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

This is no longer 
The golden age of art. Men have be- 
come 
Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not 
In what an artist does, but set them- 
selves 
To censure what they do not compre- 
hend. 
You will not see them bearing a Ma- 
donna 
Of Cimabue to the church in triumph, 
But tearing down the statue of a Pope 
To cast it into cannon. Who are tiiey 
That bring complaints against me? 

JULIUS. 

Deputies 
Of the commissioners; and they com- 
plain 
Of insufficient light in the Three Chap- 
els. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Your Holiness, the insufficient light 
Is somewhere else, and not in the Three 

Chapels. 
Who are the deputies that make com- 
plaint ? 



The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, 
Here present. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, rising. 

With permission, Monsignori, 
What is it ye complain of ? 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

We regret 
You have departed from Bramante's 

plan, 
And from San Gallo's. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Since the ancient time 
No greater architect has lived on earth 
Than Lazzari P)ramante. His design, 
Without confusion, simple, clear, well- 
lighted, 



Merits all praise, and to depart from it 
Would be departing from the truth. 

San Gallo, 
Building about with columns, took ali 

light 
Out of this plan ; left in the choir dark 

corners 
For infinite ribaldries, and lurking u 

places 
For rogues and robbers ; so that when 

the church 
Was shut at night, not five and twenty 

men 
Could find them out. It was San Gallo, 

then. 
That left the church in darkness, and 

not I. 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

Excuse me ; but in each of the Three 

Chapels 
Is but a single Avindow. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Monsignore, 
Perhaps you do not know that in the 

vaulting 
Above there are to go three other win- 
dows. 

CARDINAL SALVIATI. 

How shouhl we know 1 You never told 
us of it. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, 

I neither am obliged, nor will I be, 
To tell your Eminence or any other 
What 1 intend or ought to do. Your 

office 
Is to ])rovide the means, and sec that 

thieves 
Do not lay hands upon them. The de- 
signs 
Must all be left to me. 

CARDINAL MARCELLO. 

Sir architect, 
You do forget yourself, to speak thus 

rudely 
In presence of his Holiness, and to us 
Who are his cardinals. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, putting On liis hat. 

I do not forget 
I am descended from the Counts Ca 

nossa, 
Linked with the Imperial line, and wit^ 

Matilda 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



458 



Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Pat- 
rimony. 
I, too, am proud to give uuto the Church 
The labor of these hands, and what of 

hfe 
Remains to me. My father Buonarotti 
Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese. 
I am not used to have men speak to 

me 
As if I were a mason, hired to build 
A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays 
So much an hour. 

CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside. 

No wonder that Pope Clement 
Never sat down in presence of this man, 
Lest he should do the same ; and always 

bade him 
Put on his hat, lest he unasked should 

do it ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

If any one could die of grief and shame, 

I should. This labor was imposed upon 
me ; 

I did not seek it ; and if I assumed it, 

'T was not for love of fame or love of 
gain, 

But for the love of God. Perhaps old 
age 

Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambi- 
tion ; 

I may be doing harm instead of good. 

Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release 
me; 

Take off from me the burden of this 
Avork ; 

Let me go back to Florence, 



JULIUS. 



While I am living. 



Never, never, 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Doth your Holiness 
Remember what the Holy Scriptures 

say _ 
Of the inevitable time, when those 
Who look out of the windows shall be 

darkened, 
And the almond-tree shall flourish ? 



Ecclesiastes. 



That is IT 



MICHAEL ANGELO 

And the grassliopper 



Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail. 
Because man goeth unto his long home. 
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher ; 

all 
Is vanitv. 



Ah, were to do a thing 
As easy as to dream of doing it. 
We should not want for artists. But 

the men 
Who carry out in act their great designs 
Are few in number ; ay, they may be 

counted 
Upon the fingers of this hand. Your 

place 
Is at St. Peter's. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I have had my dream, 
And cannot carry out my great concep- 
tion. 
And put it into act. 

JULIUS. 

Then who can do it ? 
You would but leave it to some Baccio 

Bigio 
To mangle and deface. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Rather than that, 
I will still bear the burden on my shoul- 
ders 
A little longer. If your Holiness 
AVill keep the world in order, and will 

leave 
The building of the church to me, the 

Avork 
Will go on better for it. Holy Father, 
If all the labors that I have endured. 
And shall endure, advantage not my 

soul, 
I am but losing time. 

JULIUS, lai/ing his hands on michael 
ANGELO's shoulders. 

You wn'll be gainer 
Both for your soul and body. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Not events 
Exasperate me, but the funest conclu- 
sions 
I draw from these events; the sure de- 

clnic 
Of art, and all the meaning of that 
word : 



454 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



All that embellishes and sweetens life, 
And lifts it from the level of low cares 
Into tlie purer atmospliere of beauty ; 
The faith in the Ideal ; the inspiration 
That made the canons of the church of 

Seville 
Say, " Let us build, so that all men here- 
after 
Will say that we were madmen." Holy 

Father, 
I beg permission to retire from here. 



Go ; and my benediction be upon you. 
[Michael Angela goes out. 

My Cardinals, this Michael Augelo 

Must not be dealt with as a common 
mason. 

He comes of noble blood, and for his 
crest 

Bear two bull's horns ; and he has given 
us proof 

That he can toss with them. From this 
day forth 

Unto the end of time, let no man utter 

The name of Baccio Bigio in my pres- 
ence. 

All great achievements are the natural 
fruits 

Of a great character. As trees bear not 

Their fruits of the same size and qual- 
ity, 

But each one in its kind with equal 
ease, 

So are great deeds as natural to great 
men 

As mean things are to small ones, "Sy 
his work 

We know the master. Let us not per- 
plex him. 



IIL 

BINDO ALTOVITL 

A street in Rome. BixDO Altoviti, 
standing at the door of his house. Mi- 
chael Angelo, passing. 

BINDO. 

Good-raorning, Messer Michael Angelo ! 

MICHAEL AXGELO. 

Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti ! 

BINDO. 

What brings you forth so early t 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The same reason 
That keeps you standing sentinel at your 

door, — 
The air of this delicious summer morn- 
ing. 
What news have you from Florence ? 

BINDO. 

NothiiQg ueWp 

The same old tale of violence and 
wrong. 

Since the disastrous day at Monte 
Mnrlo, 

When in procession, through San Gallo's 
gate. 

Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry 
steeds, 

Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori 

Were led as prisoners down the streets 
of Florence, 

Amid the shouts of an ungrateful peo- 
ple, 

Hope is no more, and liberty no more. 

Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns su- 
preme. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Florence is dead: her houses are but 

tombs ; 
Silence and solitude are in her streets. 

BINDO. 

Ah yes ; and often I repeat the words 
You wrote upon vour statue of the 

Night, 
There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo : 
" Grateful to me is sleep ; to be of 

stone 
More grateful, while the wrong and 

shame endure ; 
To see not, feel not, is a benediction ; 
Therefore awake me not ; oh, speak in 

whispers." 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, 
The fallen fortunes, and the desolation 
Of Florence are to me a tragedy 
Deeper than words, and darker than 

despair. 
I, who have worshipped freedom from 

my cradle. 
Have loved her with the passion of a 

lover, 
And clothed her with all lovely attrib 

utes 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



455 



That the imagination can conceive, 

Or the heart conjure up, now see her 

dead, 
And trodden in the dust beneath the 

feet 
Of an adventurer! It is a grief 
Too great for me to bear iu my old 

age. 

BINDO. 

I say no news from Florence: I am 

wrong, 
For Beuveuuto writes that he is coming 
To be my guest in Kome. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Those are good tidings. 
He hath been many years away from 



BINDO. 

Pray you, come in. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I have not time to stay, 
And yet I will. I see from here your 

house 
Is filled with works of art. That bust 

in bronze 
Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the 

master 
That works in such an admirable way, 
And with such power and feeling ? 



Benvenuto. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ah ? Benvenuto ? 'T is a master- 
piece ! 
It pleases me as much, and even more, 
Than the antiques about it; and yet 

they 
Are of the best one sees. But you have 

placed it 
By far too liigh. The light comes from 

below, 
And injures the expression. Were 

these windows 
Above and not beneath it, then indeed 
It would maintain its own among these 

works 
Of the old masters, noble as they are. 
X will go in and study it more closely. 
I always prophesied that Benvenuto, 
With all his follies and fantastic ways, 
'Vould show his genius in some work of 

art 



That would amaze the world, and be a 

challenge 
Unto all other artists of his time. 

[They go iri. 



IV. 
IN THE COLISEUM. 

Michael Angelo and Tomaso de 
Cavalieri. 

cavalieri. 

What have you here alone, Messer Mi' 
chele ) 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I come to learn. 

CAVALIERI. 

You are already^ master, 
And teach all other men. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Nay, I know nothing; 
Not even my own ignorance, as some 
Philosopher hath said. I am a school- 
boy 
Who hath not learned his lesson, and 

who stands 
Ashamed and silent in the awful pres- 
ence 
Of the great master of antiquity 
Who built these walls cyclopean. 

CAVALIERI. 

Gaudentius 
His name was, I remember. His re- 
ward 
Was to be thrown alive to the wild 

beasts 
Here where we now are standing. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Idle tales. 



CAVALIERI. 



But you are greater than Gaudentius 

was. 
And your work nobler. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Silence, I beseech yoa 

CAVALIERI. 

Tradition says that fifteen thousand 
men 



456 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Were toiling for ten years incessantly 
tJpon this amphitheatre. 

MICHAEL, ANGELO. 

Behold 
How wonderful it is ! The queen of 

flowers, 
The marble rose of Rome ! Its petals 

torn 
By wind and rain of thrice five hundred 

years ; 
Its mossy sheath half rent away, and 

sold 
To ornament our palaces and churches, 
Or to be trodden under feet of rnan 
Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what re- 
mains 
Still opening- its fair bosom to the sun, 
And to the constellations that ai night 
Hang poised above it like a swarm of 
bees. 

CAVALIERI. 

The rose of Rome, but not of Para- 
dise ; 
Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw. 
With saints for petals. When this rose 

was perfect 
Its hundred thousand petals were not 

saints, 
But senators in their Thessalian caps. 
And all the roaring populace of Rome ; 
And even an Empress and the Vestal 

Virgins, 
Who came to see the gladiators die, 
Could not give sweetness to a rose like 
this. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I spake not of its uses, but its beauty. 

CAVALIERI. 

The sand beneath our feet is saturate 
With blood of martyrs ; and these rifted 

stones 
Are awful witnesses against a people 
Whose pleasure was the pain of dying 



MICHAEL ANGEJLO. 

lomaso Cavalieri, on my word, 

^ou should have been a preacher, not a 



pamter 



Think you that I approve such cruel- 
ties. 
Because I marvel at the architects 
Who built these walls, and curved these 
noble arches 1 



Oh, I am put to shame, when I considei 
Eow mean our work is, when compared 

with theirs! 
Look at these walls about us and above 

usl 
They have been shaken by earthquakes, 

have been made 
A fortress, and been battered by long 

sieges ; 
The iron clamps, that held the stones 

together, 
Have been wrenched from them; but 

they stand erect 
And firm, as if they had been hewn and 

hollowed 
Out of the solid rock, and were a part 
Of the foundations of the world itself. 

CAVALIERI. 

Your work, I say again, is nobler work, 

In so far as its end and aim are nobler; 

And this is but a ruin, like the rest. 

Its vaulted passages are made the cav- 
erns 

Of robbers, and are haunted by the 
ghosts 

Of murdered men. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

A thousand wild flowers bloom 
From every chink, and the birds build 

their nests 
Among the ruined arches, and suggest 
New thoughts of beauty to the architect. 
Now let us climb the broken stairs that 

lead 
Into the corridors above, and study 
The marvel and the mystery of that art 
In which I am a pupil, not a master. 
All things must have an end ; the world 

itself 
Must have an end, as in a dream I saw 

it. 
There came a great hand out of heaven, 

and touched 
j The earth, and stop])ed it in its course. 

The seas 
Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss; 
The forests and the fields slid off, and 

floated 
Like wooded islands in the air. The 

dead 
Were hurled forth from their sepulchres: 

the living 
Were mingled with them, and thei» 

selves were dead, — 
All being dead; and the fair, shininy 

cities 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



457 



Dropped out like jewels from a broken 

crowu. 
Kauglit but the core of the great globe 

remaiued, 
A skeleton of stuue. And oA'er it 
The wrack of matter drifted like a 

cloud, 
And then recoiled upon itself, and fell 
Back on the empty Avorld, that with the 

weight 
Reeled, staggered, righted, and then 

headlong plunged 
Into the darkness, as a ship, when 

struck 
By a great sea, throws off the waves at 

tirst 
On either side, then settles and goes 

down 
Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew. 

CAVALIERI. 

But the earth does not movs. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Who knows ? who knows ? 

There are great truths that pitch their 
shining tents 

Outside our walls, and though but 
dimly seen 

In the gray dawn, they will be mani- 
fest ' 

When the light widens into perfect day. 

A certain man, Copernicus by name, 

Sometime professor here in Rome, has 
M'hispered 

It is the earth, and not the sun, that 
moves. 

What I beheld was only in a dream, 

Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events, 

Being unsubstantial images of things 

As yet unseen. 



V. 

BENVENUTO AGAIN. 

Macello de' Corn'. Michael Angelo, 
Benvenuto Cellini. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

So, Benvenuto, you return once more 
To the Eternal City. 'T is the centre 
To which all gravitates One finds no 

rest 
Elsewhere than here. There may be 

otber cities 



That please us for a while, but Rome 

ah)ne 
Completely satisfies. It becomes to all 
A second native land by ])rcdiiection. 
And not by accident of birth alone. 

BENVENUTO. 

I am but just arrived, and am now lodg- 
ing 
With Biudo Altoviti. I have been 
To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father,^ 
And now am come in haste to kiss the 

hands 
Of my miraculous Master. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And to find him 
Grown very old. 

BENVENUTO. 

You know that precious stones 
Never grow old. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Half sunk beneath the horizon, 
And yet not gone. Twelve years are 

a Ions while. 
Tell me of France. 

BENVENUTO. 

It were too long a tale 
To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say 
The King received me well, and loved 

me well ; 
Gave me the annual pension that before 

me 
Our Leonardo had, nor m.ore nor less, 
And for my residence the Tour de 

Nesle, 
Upon the river-side. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

A princely lodging 

BENVENUTO. 

What in return I did now matters 

not, 
For there are other things, of greater 

moment, 
I wish to speak of. First of all, the 

letter 
You wrote me, not long since, about 

my bust 
Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You 

said, 
" M> Benvenuto, I for many years 
Have known you as the greatest of all 

goldsmiths. 



i58 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



And now I know you as no less a sculp- 

tor." 
Ah, geuerous Master ! How shall I e'er 

thank you 
For such kiucl language ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

♦By believing it. 
I saw the bust at Messer li iudo's house, 
And thouglit it worthy of the aucient 

masters, 
"And said so. That is all. 

BENVENUTO. 

It is too much ; 
And I should stand abashed here in your 

presence, 
Had I done nothing worthier of your 

praise 
Than Bindo's bust. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

What have you done that 's better ? 

BENVENUTO. 

When I left Rome for Paris, you re- 
member 

I promised you that if I went a gold- 
smith 

I would return a sculptor. I have kept 

The promise I then made. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Dear Benvenuto, 
I recognized the latent genius in you. 
But feared your vices. 

BENVENUTO. 

I have turned them all 
To virtues. My impatient, wayward 

njiture, 
That made me quick in quarrel, now 

lias served me 
Where meekness could not, and where 

patience could not, 
As yo'i shall hear now. I have cast in 

bronze 
A statue of Perseus, holdinir thus aloft 
In his left hand the head of the Medusa, 
And in his right the sword that .severed it; 
His rijiht foot planted on the lifeless 

corse ; 
His face superb and pitiful, with eyes 
Pown-looking on the victim of his ven- 
geance. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

t see it as it should be. 



BENVENUTO. 

As it will be 
When it is placed upon the Ducai 

Square, 
Half-way between your D4,vid and the 

Judith 
Of Donatello. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Rival of them both ! 

BENVENUTO. 

But ah, what infinite trouble have I had 
With Bandinello, and that stupid beast, 
The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, 
Francesco Ricci, and their wretched 

agent 
Gorini, who came crawling round about 

me 
Like a black spider, with his whining 

voice 
That sounded like the buzz of a mos- 
quito ! 
Oh, I have wept in utter desperation, 
And wished a thousand times 1 had not 

left 
My Tour de Nesle, nor e'er returned to 

Florence, 
Or though r of Perseus. What malignant 

falsehoods 
They told the Grand Duke, to impede 

my work, 
And make me desperate ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The nimble lie 
Is like the second-hand upon a clock; 
We see it fly; while the hour-hand of 

truth 
Seems to stand still, and yet it moves 

unseen. 
And wins at last, for the clock will not 

strike 
Till it has reached the goal. 

BENVENUTO. 

My obstinacy 
Stood me in stead, and helped me to 

o'ercome 
The hindrances that envy and ill-will 
Put in my way. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, 

When anytliing is done^ 
People see not the patient doing of it. 
Nor think how great would be the losj 
to man 



MICHAEL ANGELOo 



459 



If it had not been done. As in a build- 
ing 
Stone rests on stone, and wanting the 

foundation 
All would be wanting, so in human life 
Each action rests on tlie foregone event, 
That made it possible, but is forgotten 
And buried in the earth. 

BENVENUTO. 

Even Bandinello, 
Who never yet spake well of anything, 
Speaks well of this ; and yet he told the 

Duke 
That, thoii^li I cast small figures well 

enoiigii, 
I never could cast this. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

But you have done it, 
And proved Ser Bandinello a false 

prophet. 
That is the wisest way. 

BENVENUTO. 

And ah, that casting ! 
What a wild scene it was, as late at 

night, 
A night of wind and rain, we heaped 

the furnace 
With pine of Serristori, till the flames 
Caught in the rafters over us, and threat- 
ened 
To send the burning roof upon our 

heads ; 
And from the garden side the wind and 

lai n 
Poured in upon us, and half quenched 

our fires. 
I was beside myself with desperation. 
A shudder came upon me, then a fever ; 
I thought that I was dying, and was 

forced 
To leave the work-shop, and to throv/ 

myself 
Upon my bed, as one who has no hope. 
And as I lay there, a deformed old man 
Appeared before me, and with dismal 

voice, 
Like one who doth exhort a criminal 
Led forth to death, exclaimed, " Poor 

Ben Venn to, 
Thy work is spoiled ! There is no rem- 
edy ! " 
Then, with a cry so loud it might have 

reached 
The heaven of fire, I bounded to my 

feet. 



And rushed back to my workmen. They 

all stood 
Bewildered and desponding ; and I 

looked 
Into the furnace, and beheld the mass 
Half molten only, and in my despair 
1 fed the fire with oak, whose terrible 

heat 
Soon made the sluggish metal shine anc^ 

sparkle. 
Then followed a bright flash, and an 

explosion, 
As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us. 
The covering of the furnace had been 

rent 
Asunder, and the bronze was flowing 

over ; 
So tliat I straightway opened all the 

slidces 
To fill the mould. The metal ran like 

lava. 
Sluggish and heavy ; and I sent my 

workmen 
To ransack the whole house, and bring 

togeiher 
My pewter plates and pans, two hundred 

of them, 
And cast them one by one into the fur* 

nace 
To liquefy the mass, and in a moment 
The mould was filled ! I fell upon my 

knees 
And thanked the Lord; and then we 

ate and drank 
And went to bed, all hearty and con- 
tented. 
It was two hours before the break of day. 
My fever was quite gone. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

A strange adventure, 
That could have happened to no man 

alive 
But you, my Beuveuuto. 

BENVENUTO. 

As my workmen said 
To major-domo Kicci afterward, 
When he inquired of them: '* 'T wae 

not a man. 
But an express great devil.'* 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And the statuo? 

BENVENUTO. 

Perfect in every part, save the right 
foot 



460 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke. 
There Avas just bronze enough to fill the 

mould ; 
Not a drop over, not a drop too little. 
I looked upon it as a miracle 
Wrought by the hand of God. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

And now I see 
How you have turned your vices into 
virtues. 

BENVENUTO. 

But wherefore do I prate of this ? I 

came 
To speak of other things. Duke Co- 

simo 
Through me invites you to return to 

Floreuce, 
And offers you great honors, even to 

make you 
One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

His Senators \ That is enough. Since 

Florence 
Was changed by Clement Seventh from 

a Kepublic 
Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish 
To be a Florentine. That dream is 

ended. 
The Grand Duke Cosirao now reigns 

supreme ; 
All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me ! 
I hoped to see my country rise to 

heights 
Of happines^s and freedom yet unreached 
By other nations, hut the climbing wave 
Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again 
Back to the common level, with a hoarse 
Death rattle in its threat. I am too old 
To hope for better days. I will stay here 
And die in Rome. The very weeds, 

that grow 
Among the broken fragments of her 

ruins, 
Are sweeter to me than the garden 

flowers 
Of other cities ; and the desolate ring 
Of thf Campagna round about her wails 
Fairer than all the villas that encircle 
The towns of Tuscany. 

BENVENUTO. 

But vour old friends ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

All dead by violence. Baccio Valorl 



Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poi 
soued ; 

Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. 

Is Florence then a place for honest men 

To flourish in 1 What is there to pre- 
vent 

My sharing the same fate 'i 

BENVENUTO. 

Why, this : if all 
Your friends are dead, so are your ene 

mies. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Is Aretino dead ? 

BENVENUTO. 

He lives in Venice, 
And not in Florence. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

'T is the same to me. 
This wretched mountebank, whom flat- 
terers 
Call the Divine, as if to make the word 
Unpleasant in the mouths of those who 

speak it 
And in the ears of those who hear it, 

sends me » 

A letter written for the public eye, 
And with such subtle and infernal mal 

ice, 
I wonder at his wickedness. 'T is he 
Is the express gicat devil, and not you. 
Some years ago he told me how to paint 
The scenes of the Last Judgment. 



BENVENUTO. 



I remember. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Well, now he writes to me that, as a 
Christian, 

He is ashamed of the unbounded free- 
dom 

With which I represent it. 



BENVENUTO. 



Hypocrite I 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

He says 1 show mankind that I am 

Avantiug 
In piety and religion, in proportion 
As I profess perfection in my art. 
Profess perfection ? Why, 't is only 

men 
Like Bugiardini who are satisfied 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



461 



With what they do. I never am con- 
tent, 
But always see the labors of my hand 
Fall short of my conception. 

BENVENUTO. 

I perceive 
The malice of this creature. He would 

taint you 
With heresy, and in a time like this I 
'T is infamous' 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I represent the angels 
Without their heavenly glory, and the 

saints 
Without a trace of earthly modesty. 

BENVENUTO. 

Incredible audacity ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The heathen 
Veiled their Diana with some drapery, 
And when they represented Venus 

naked 
They made her hy her modest attitude. 
Appear half clothed. But I, Avho am a 

Christian, 
Do so subordinate belief to art 
That I have made the very violation 
Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins 
A spectacle at which all men would 

gaze 
With half-averted eyes even in a brothel. 

BENVENUTO. 

He is at at home there, and he ought to 
know 

What men avert their eyes from in such 
places ; 

From tiie Last Judgment chiefly, I imag- 
ine. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

But divine Providence will never leave 
The boldness of my marvellous work un- 
punished ; 
And the more marvellous it is, the more 
'T is sure to prove the ruin of my 

fame ! 
And finally, if in this composition 
I had pursued the instructions that he 

gave me 
Concerning heaven and hell and para- 
dise. 
In that same letter, known to all the 
world. 



Nature would not be forced, as she is 
now, 

To feel ashamed that she invested me 

With such great talent ; that I stand 
myself 

A very idol in the world of art. 

He taunts me also with the Mauso- 
leum 

Of Julius, still unfinished, for the rea- 
son 

That men persuaded the inane old man 

It was of evil augury to build 

His tomb while he was living ; and he 
speaks 

Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed 
to me. 

And calls it robbery; — that is what he 
says. 

What prompted such a letter 1 

BENVENUTO. 

Vanity. 
He is a clever writer, and he likes 
To draw his pen, and flourish it in the 

face 
Of every honest man, as swordsmen do 
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show 
How skilfully they do it. Had you fol- 
lowed 
The advice he gave, or even thanked 

him for it, 
You would have seen another style of 

fence. 
'T is but his wounded vanity, and the 

wish 
To see his name in print. So give it 

not 
A moment's thought ; it soon will bo 

forgotten. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I will not think of it, but let it pass 
For a rude speech thrown at me in the 

street, 
As boys threw stones at Dante. 

BENVENUTO. 

And what answet 

Shall I take back to Grand Duke Co- 
simo ? 

He does not ask youi labor or your ser- 
vice ; 

Only your presence in the city of Flor- 
ence, 

With such advice upon his work iu 
hand 

As he may ask, and you may choose to 
give. 



162 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

iTou have my answer. Nothing he can 
offer 

Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work 
is here, 

And only here, the building of St. Pe- 
ter's. 

What oth-^r things I hitherto have done 

Have fallen from nie, are no lonL::er mine ; 

I have passed on beyond them, and 
have left them 

As milestones on the way. What lies 
before me, 

That is still mine, and while it is unfin- 
ished 
•No one shall draw me from it, or per- 
suade me, 

By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, 

Till I behold the finished dome uprise 

Complete, as now I see it in my thought. 

BENVENUTO. 

And will you paint no more ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

No more. 

BENVENUTO. 

'T is well. 
Sculpture is more divine, and more like 

Nature, 
That fashions all her works in hi"h re- 

lief. 
And that is sculpture. This vast ball, 

the Earth, 
Was moulded out of clay, and baked in 

fire; 
Men, women, and all animals that 

breathe 
Are statues, and not paintings. Even 

the plants. 
The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were 

first sculptured, 
And colored later. Painting is a lie, 
A shadow merely. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Truly, as you say, 
Sculpture is more than painting. It is 

greater 
To raise the dead to life than to create 
Phantoms that seem to live. The most 

majestic 
Of the tliree sister arts is that which 

builds ; 
The eldest of them all, to whom the 

others 



Are but the hand-maids and the servj^ 

tors. 
Being but imitation, not creation. 
Henceforth I dedicate myself to her. 

BENVENUTO. 

And no more from the marble hew those 

forms 
That fill us all with wonder ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Many statues 
Will there be room for in my work. 

Their station 
Already is assigned them in my mind. 
But things move slowly. There are 

hindrances. 
Want of material, want of means, delays 
And interruptions, endless interference 
Of Cardinal Commissioners, and dis 

puti's 
And jealousies of artists, that annoy me. 
But 1 will persevere until the work 
Is wholly finished, or till I sink down 
Surprised by death, that unexpected 

guest, 
Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps 

in, 
Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop 
To all our occupations and designs. 
And then ])erliaps I may go back to 

Florence ; 
This is my answer to Duke Cosimo 



VI. 

URBINO'S FORTUNE. 

Michael Angelo's Studio. Michael 
Angelo and Urbino. 

MICHAEL angelo, pausing in his work 

Urbino, thou and I are both old men. 
My strength begins to fail me. 

urbino. 

Eccellenza, 
That is impossible. Do I not see you 
Attack the marble blocks with the same 

fury 
As twenty years ago ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

'T is an old habit 
I must have learned it early from my 

nurse 
At Setignauo, the stone-mason's wife; 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



463 



(?'or Che first sounds I heard were of 
the chisel 
• Chipping away the stone. 

URBINO. 

At every stroke 
Yea strike fire with your chisel. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ay, because 
The marble is too hard. 

URBINO. 

It is a block 
That Topolino sent you from Carrara. 
He is a judge of marble. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I remember. 
With it he sent me something of his 

making, • — 
A Mercury, with long body and short 

legs, 
As if by any possibility 
A messenger of the gods could have 

short legs. 
It was no more like Mercury than you 

are, 
But rather like those little plaster figures 
That peddlers hawk about the villages 
As images of saints. But luckily 
r'or Topolino, there are many people 
Who see no difference between what is 

best 
And what is only good, or not even 

good ; 
So that poor artists stand in their esteem 
On the same level with the best, or 

higher. 

URBINO. 

How Eccellenza laughed \ 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Poor Topolino ! 
All men are not born artists, nor will 

labor 
E'er make them artists. 

URBINO. 

No, no more 
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. 
One must be chosen for it. I have been 
V our color-grinder six and twenty years, 
And am not yet an artist. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Some have eyes 
That see not; but in every block of 
marble 



I see a statue, — see it as distinctly 
As if it stood before me shaped and per- 
fect 
In attitude and action. I have only 
To hew away the stone walls that im- 
prison 
The lovely apparition, and reveal it 
To other eyes as mine already see it. 
But I grow old and weak. What wilt; 

thou do 
When I am dead, Urbino ? 

URBINO. 

Eccellenza, 
I must then serve another master. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Never ! 
Bitter is servitude at best. Already 
So many years hast thou been serving 

me; 
But rather as a friend than as a servant. 
"We have grown old together. Dost 

thou think 
So meanly of this Michael Angelo 
As to imagine he would let thee serve^ 
When he is free from service "? Take 

this purse, 
Two thousand crowns in gold. 

URBINO. 

Two thousand crowns \ 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt 

not die 
A beggar in a hospital. 

URBINO, 

Oh, Master ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

I cannot have them with me on the 
journey 

That I am undertaking. The last gar- 
ment 

That men will make for me will have 
no pockets. 

URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL 

ANGELO. 

My generous master ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Hush ! 



URBINO. 



My Providence 



464 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Not a word more. Go now to bed, old 

man. 
Thou hast served Michael Augelo. Ke- 

member, 
Henceforward thou shalt serve no other 

master. 



VII. 
THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA. 
Michael Angelo, alone 171 the woods. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

How still it is among these ancient 
oaks! 

Surges and undulations of the air 

Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them 
fall 

With scarce a spund. Such sylvan 
quietudes 

Become old age. These huge centen- 
nial oaks, 

That may have heard in infancy the 
trumpets 

Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride 

Man's brief existence, that with all his 
strength 

He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth 
year. 

This little acorn, turbaned like the 
Turk, 

Which with my foot I spurn, may be an 
oak 

Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast 

The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its 
arms 

The cradled nests of birds, when all the 
men 

That now inhabit this vast universe. 

They and their children, and their chil- 
dren's children, 

Shall be but dust and mould, and noth- 
ing more. 

Through openings in the trees I see be- 
low me 

The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms 

And snow-white oxen grazing in the 
shade 

Of the tall poplars on the river's brink. 

Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse ! 

I, who have never loved thee as I ought, 

But wasted all my years immured in 
cities. 

And breathed the stifling atmosphere of 
streets. 



Now come to thee for refuge. Here is 

peace. 
Yonder I see the little hermitages 
Dotting the mountain side Avith points 

of light. 
And here St. Julian's convent, like a 

nest 
Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. 
Beyond the broad, illimitable plain 
DoAvn sinks the sun, red as Apollo's 

quoit, 
That, by the envious Zephyr blown 

aside. 
Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained 

the earth 
With his young blood, that blossomed 

into flowers. 
And now, instead of these fair deities, 
Dread demons haunt the earth ; hermits 

inhabit 
The leafy homes of sylvan Hama- 
dryads ; 
And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund. 
Replace the old Silenus with his ass. 

Here underneath these venerable oaks. 
Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like 

them with age, 
A brother of the monastery sits. 
Lost in his meditations. What may be 
The questions that perplex, the hopes 

that cheer him ? 
Good-evening, holy father. 

MONK. 

God be with you. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Pardon a stranger if he interrupt 
Your meditations. 



It was but a dream, — 
The old, old dream, that never will come 

true ; 
The dream that all my life I have been 

dreaming, 
And yet is still a dream. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

All men have dreams : 
I have had mine ; but none of them 

came true ; 
They were but vanity. Sometimes I 

think 
The happiness of man lies in pursuing. 
Not in possessing; for the tilings pos- 
sessed 



i 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



465 



Lose half their value. Tell me of your 
dream. 

MONK. 

The yearning of my heart, my sole de- 
sire, 

That like the sheaf of Joseph stands 
upright. 

While all the others bend and bow to it ; 

The passion that torments me, and that 
breathes 

New meaning into the dead forms of 
prayer. 

Is that with mortal eyes I may behold 

The Eternal City. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Rome? 



There is but one ; 
The rest are merely names. I think 

of it 
As the Celestial City, paved with gold, 
And sentinelled with angels. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Would it were. 

I have just fled from it. It is be- 
leaguered 

By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of 
Alva. 



But still for me 't is the Celestial City, 
And I would see it once before I die. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Each one must bear his cross. 

MONK. 

Were it a cross 
That had been laid upon me, I could 

bear it. 
Or fall with it. It is a crucifix ; 
I am nailed hand and foot, and I am 

dying ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

What would you see in Rome ? 

MONK. 

His Holiness. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Him that was once the Cardinal Ca- 

raffa? 
You would but see a man of fourscore 

years, 



With sunken eyes, burning like carbun. 

cles, 
Who sits at table with his friends for 

hours. 
Cursing the Spaniards as a race of 

Jews 
And miscreant Moors. And with what 

soldiery 
Think you he now defends the Eternal 

City? 

MONK. 

With legions of bright angels. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

So he calls them ; 
And yet in fact these bright angelic 

legions 
Are only German Lutherans. 

3IONK, crossmj himself. 

Heaven protect us ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

What further would you see ? 

MONK. 

The Cardinals, 
Going in their gilt coaches to High 
Mass. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Men do not go to Paradise in coaches. 

MONK. 

The catacombs, the convents, and the 

churches ; 
The ceremonies of the Holy Week 
In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, 
The Feast of the Santissima Bambino 
At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see 

them. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

These pompous ceremonies of the 

Church 
Are but an empty show to him who 

knows 
The actors in them. Stay here in your 

convent. 
For he who goes to Rome may see too 

much. 
What would you further ? 

MONK. 

I would see the painting 
Of the Last Judgment in the Sis tine 
Chapel. 



^66 



lillCHAEL ANGELO. 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The smoke of incense and of altar can- 
dles 
Has blackened it already. 

MONK. 

Woe is me ! 
Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere, 
Sung by the Papal choir. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

A dismal dirge ! 
I am an old, old man, aud 1 have lived 
In Rome for thirty years and more, aud 

know 
The jarriug of the wheels of that great 

world. 
Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife. 
Therefore I say to you, remain content 
Here in your convent, here among your 

woods, 
W^here only there is peace. Go not to 

Home. 
There was of old a monk of Wittenberg 
Who went to Rome ; you may have 

heard of him ; 
His name was Luther; and you know 

what followed. 

[The convent bell rings. 

MONK, rising. 

It is the convent bell ; it rings for ves- 
pers. 

Let us go in; we both will pray for 
peace. 

VIIL 

THE DEAD CHRIST. 

Michael Angelo's studio. Michael 
Angelo, with a light, working upon 
the Dead Christ. Midnight. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Death, why is it I cannot portray 
Thy form and features? Do I stand 

too near thee 7 
Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw 

me back. 
As being thy disciple, not thy master 1 
Let him who knows not what old age is 

like 
Have patience till it comes, and he will 

know. 

1 once had skill to fashion Life and 

Death 



And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of 

Death ; 
And I remember Avhat Giovanni Strozzi 
Wrote underneath my statue of the 

Night 
In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago ! 

Grateful to me is sleep ! More grateful 

now 
Than it was then; for all my friends 

are dead ; 
And she is dead, the noblest of them 

all. 
I saw her face, when the great sculptor 

Death, 
Whom meu should call Divine, had at a 

blow 
Stricken her into marble ; and I kissed 
Her cold white hand. What was it 

held me back 
From kissing her fair forehead, and 

those lips. 
Those dead, dumb lips 1 Grateful to 

me is sleep! 

Enter Giorgio Vasari. 

GIORGIO. 

Good-evening, or good-morning, for 1 

know not 
Which of the two it is. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

How came you in ? 

GIORGIO. 

Why, by the door, as all men do. 



Ascanifl 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Must have forgotten to bolt it. 

GIORGIO. 

Probably. 
Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, 
That I could slip through bolted door 

or window ? 
As I was passing down the street, I saw 
A glimmer of light, and heard the well- 
known chink 
Of chisel upon marble. So I enteret^, 
To see what keeps you from your bed 
so late. 

MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with 
the lamp. 

You have been revelling with your booi 
companions, 



MICHAEL ANGELO. 



467 



Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me 
At au uutimely hour. 

GIORGIO. 

The Pope hath sent me. 
Hia Holiness desires to see again 
The drawing you once showed him of 

the dome 
Of the Basilica. 

MICHAEL ANGELO. 

We will look for it. 

GIORGIO. 

What is the marble group that glim- 
mers there 
Behind you ? 

MICHAEL ANGELO, 

Nothing, and yet everything, — 
As one may take it. It is my own 

tomb, 
That I am building. 



GIORGIO. 

Do not hide it from me. 
By our long friendship and the love I 

bear you. 
Refuse me not ! 

MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. 
Life hath become to me 

An empty theatre, — its lights extin- 
guished, 

The music silent, and the actors gone ; 

And I alone sit musing on the scenes 

That once have been. I am so old that 
Death 

Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come 
with him ; 

And some day, like this lamp, shall I 
fall down, 

And my last spark of life will be ex- 
tinguished. 

Ah me! ah me! what darkness of de- 
spair ! 

So near to death, and vet so far from 
Godl 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



Page li. Capias de Manrique. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favor- 
ite in Spain. No less than four poetic 
Glosses, or running commentaries, upon 
it have been published, no one of which, 
however, possesses great poetic merit. 
That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de 
Valdepefms, is the best. It i.s known as 
the Closa del Cartujo. There is also a prose 
Commentary by Luis de Araiula. 

The following stanzas of the poem were 
found in the author's pocket, after his death 
on the field of battle. 

*' World I so few the years we live, 
"Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed I 
Alas 1 thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

" Our days are covered o'er with grief. 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good. 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or darlt despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

" Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By fhe hot sweat of toil alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe. 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs." 

Page 21. King Christian. 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Ad- 
miral, and Peder Wcssel, a Vice-Adiniral, 
who for his great prowess received the 
popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thunder- 
shield. In childhood he was a tailor's ap- 
prentice, and rose to his high rank before 
the age of twenty- eight, when lie was 
killed in a duel. 



Page 25. The Skeleton cu Armor. 

This Ballad was suggested to me while 
riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A 
year or two previous a skeleton had been 
dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and 
corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to 
me of connecting it with the Round Tower 
at Newport, generally known hitherto as 
the Old Windmill, though now claimed by 
the Danes as a work of their early ances- 
tors. Professor Kafn, in the Memoires de 
la Societe Royale des Antiquaires dti Nord^ 
for 1838-1839, says: — 

*' There is no mistaking in this instance 
the st3'le in which the more ancient stone 
edifices of the North were constructed, — 
the style which belongs to the Roman or 
Ante-&othic architecture, and which, es- 
pecially after the time of Charlemagne, 
diffused itself from Italy over the whole of 
the West and North of Europe, where it 
continued to predominate until the close 
of the twelfth century, — that style which 
some authors have, from one of its most 
striking characteristics, called the round 
arch style, the same which in England is 
denominated Saxon and sometimes Nor- 
man architecture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport 
there are no ornaments remaining, which 
might possibly have served to guide us in 
assigning the probable date of its erection. 
That no vestige whatever is found of the 
pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, 
is indicative of an earlier rather than of a 
later period. From such characteristics as 
remain, however, we can scarcely form any 
other inference than one, in which I am 
persuaded that all who are familia'' with 
Old -Northern architecture will concur, 

THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A 
PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE 

TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, 
of course, to the original building 011I3', 
and not to the alterations that it subse- 
quently received; for there are several 
such alterations in the upper part of the 



472 



NOTES. 



building which cannot be mistaken, and j 
which were most likely occasioned by its 
being adapted in modern times to various 
uses ; for example, as the substructure of 
a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. 
To the same times may be referred the 
windows, the fireplace, and the apertures 
made above the columns. That this 
building could not have been erected for a 
windmill, is what an architect will easily 
discern. " 

I will not enter into a discussion of the 
point. It is sufficiently well established 
for the purpose of a ballad ; though doubt- 
less many a citizen of Newport, wlio has 
passed his days within sight of the Round 
Tower, will be ready to exclaim, with 
Sancho : " God bless me ! did I not warn 
you to have a care of what you were doing, 
for that it was nothing but a windmill ; 
and nobody could mistake it, but one who 
had the like in his head." 

Page 27. Skoal ! 

In Scandinavia, this is the customary 
salutation wlien drinking a health. I have 
slightly changed the orthography of tlie 
word, in order to preserve the correct pro- 
nunciation. 

Page 28. The Luck of Edenhall 

The tradition upon which this ballad is 

founded, and the "shards of the Luck of 

Edenhall," still exist in England. The 

goblet is in the possession of Sir Christo- 

Eher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cum- 
erland ; and is not so entirely shattered 
as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 29. Tlie Elected Knight. 

This strange and somewhat mystical 
ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's 
Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It 
seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the in- 
stitution of Knight-Errantry. Tlie three 
maidens 1 suppose to be Faith, Hope, and 
Charity. The irregularities of the original 
have been carefully preserved in the trans- 
lation. 

Page 29. The Children of the Lord's 
Supper. 

There is something patriarchal still lin- 
gering about rural life in Sweden, which 
renders it a fit theme for song. Almost 
primeval simplicity reigns over that North- 
ern land, — almost primeval solitude and 
stillness. You pass out from the gate of 
the city, and, as if by magic, the scene 
changes to a wild, woodland landscape. 
Around you are forests of fir. Overhead 
hang the long, fan-like bi-anches, trailing 
with moss, and heavy with red and blue 



cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow 
leaves ; and the air is warm and balmy. 
On a wooden bridge you cross a little sil- 
ver stream ; and anon come forth into a 
pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wood- 
en fences divide tlie adjoining fields. 
Across the road are gates, which are 
opened by troops of children. The peas- 
ants take off their hats as you pass ; you 
sneeze, and they cry, " God bless you ! " 
The houses in the villages and smaller 
towns are all built of hewn timber, and for 
the most part painted red. The floors of 
the taverns are stre\\Ti with the fragrant 
tips of fir boughs. In many villages there 
are no taverns, and the peasants take turns 
in receiving travellers. The thrifty house- 
wife shows you into the best chamber, the 
walls of which are hung round with rude 
pictures from the Bible ; and brings you 
her heavy silver spoons, — an heirloom, — 
to dip the curdled milk from the pan. 
You have oaten cakes baked some months 
before, or bread with anise-seed and cori- 
ander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has 
brought his horses from the plough, and 
harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary 
travellers come and go in imcoath one- 
horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in 
their mouths, and, hanging around their 
necks in front, a leather wallet, in which 
they carry tobacco, and the great bank- 
notes of the country, as large as your two 
hands. You meet, also, groups of Dale- 
karlian peasant-Avomen, travelling home- 
ward or townward in pursuit of work. 
They walk barefoot, carrying in their 
hands their shoes, which have high heels 
\inder the hollow of the foot, and soles of 
birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, 
standing by the roadside, each in its own 
little Garden of Gethsemane. In the par- 
ish register great events are doubtless re- 
corded. Some old king was christened or 
buried in that church ; and a little sexton, 
with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal 
font, or the coffin. In the church'yard are 
a few flowers, and much green grass ; and 
daily the shadow of the church spire, with 
its long, tapering finger, counts the tombs, 
representing a dial-plate of human life, on 
which the hours and minutes are the 
graves of men. The stones are flat, and 
large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like 
the roofs of old houses. On some are ar- 
morial bearings ; on others only the initials 
of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the 
roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep 
with their heads to the westward. Each 
held a lighted taper in his hand when he 
died ; and in his coffin were placed his lit' 



i 



NOTES. 



473 



tie heart-treasures, and a piece of money 
for his last journey. Babes that came life- 
less into the world were carried in the 
arms of gray-haired old men to the only 
cradle they ever slept in ; and in the 
shroud of the dead mother were laid the 
little garments of the child that lived 
and died in her bosom. And over this 
scene the village pastor looks from his 
window in the stillness of midnight, and 
says in his heart, " How quietly they rest, 
all the departed ! " 

Near tlie churchyard gate stands a poor- 
box, fastened to a post by iron bands, 
and secured by a padlock, with a sloping 
wooden roof to keejD off the rain. If it be 
Sunday, the peasants sit on the church 
steps and con their psalm-books. Others 
are coming down the road with their 
beloved pastor, who talks to them of 
lioly things from beneath his broad- 
brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and 
harvests, and of the parable of the 
60wer, that went forth to sow. He leads 
them to the Good Shepherd, and to the 
pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He 
is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, 
both priest and king, though he has no 
other throne than the churcli pulpit. The 
women carry psalm-books in their hands, 
wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen 
devoutly to the good man's words. But 
the young men, like Gallio, care for none 
of these things. They are busy counting 
the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant- 
girls, their number being an indication of 
the wearer's wealth. It may end in a 
wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wed- 
ding in Sweden. It shall be in summer- 
time, that there may be flowers, and in a 
southern province, that the bride may be 
fair. The early song of the lark and of 
chanticleer are mingling in the clear morn- 
ing air, and the sun, the heavenly bride- 
groom with golden locks, arises in the east, 
just as our earthly bridegroom with yel- 
low hair arises in the south. In tlie yard 
there is a sound of voices and trampling 
of hoofs, and horses are led forth and 
saddled. The steed that is to bear the 
bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon 
his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers 
around his neck. Friends from the neigh- 
boring farms come riding in, their blue 
cloaks streaming to the wind ; and finally 
the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his 
hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the 
breast of his black jacket, comes forth 
from his chamber ; and then to horse and 
away, towards tlie village where the bride 
already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the spokesman, followed 



by some half-dozen village musicians. 
Next comes the bridegroom between his 
two groomsmen, and then forty or fifty 
friends and wedding guests, half of them 
perhaps with pistols and guns in their 
hands. A kind of baggage-wagon brings 
up the rear, laden witli food and drink for 
these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of 
every village stands a triumphal arch, 
adorned with flowers and ribbons and 
evergreens ; and as they pass beneath it 
the wedding guests fire a salute, and the 
whole procession stops. And straight from 
every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with 
punch or brandy. It is passed from hand 
to hand among the crowd ; provisions are 
brought from the wagon, and after eating 
and drinking and hurrahing the procession 
moves forward again, and at length draws 
near the house of the bride. Four heralds 
ride forward to announce that a knight and 
his attendants are in the neighboring forest, 
and pray for hospitality. " How many 
are you?" asks the bride's father. "At 
least three liundred," is the answer ; and 
to this the host replies, " Yes ; were you 
seven times as many, you should all be 
welcome : and in token thereof receive this 
cup." Whereupon each herald receives a 
can of ale ; and soon after the whole jovial 
company comes storming into the farmer's 
yard, and, liding round the May-pole, 
which stands in the centre, alights amid a 
grand salute and flourish of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crowTi 
upon her head and a tear in her eye, like 
the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. 
She is dressed in a red bodice and kirtle 
witli loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded 
belt around her waist ; and around her 
neck strings of golden beads, and a golden 
chain. On the crown rests a wreatli of 
wild roses, and below it another of cy- 
press. Loose over her shoulders falls her 
flaxen hair : and her blue innocent eyes are 
fixed upon the ground. thou good soid ! 
thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart .' 
Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou 
wearest are not thine. They have been 
hired for this great day. Yet art tliou 
rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, rich in 
thy first, young, fervent love. The bless- 
ing of Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks 
the parish priest, as he joins together the 
hands of bride and bridegroom, saying in 
deep, solemn tones, — "I give thee in 
marriage this damsel, to be thy wedded 
wife in all honor, and to share the half of 
thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third 
penny which you two may possess, or may 
inherit, and all the rights which Upland's 
laws provide, and the holy King Erik 
gave." 



474 



NOTES. 



The diunei" is now served, and the bride 
sits between the bridegroom and the priest. 
The spokesman delivers an oration after 
the ancient custom of his fathers. He in- 
terlards it well with quotations from the 
Bible ; and invites the Saviour to be pres- 
ent at this marriage feast, as he was at tlie 
marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. The ta- 
ble is not sp .ringly set forth. Each makes 
a long arm ar.d tl)e feast goes cheerly on. 
Punch and brandy pass round between the 
courses, and liere and there a pipe is smoked 
while waiting for the next dish. They sit 
long at table ; but, as all things must have 
an end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then 
the dance begins. It is led off b}'' the 
bride and the priest, who perform a sol- 
emn minuet together. Not till after mid- 
night comes the last dance. The girls 
form a ring around the bride, to keep her 
from the hands of the married women, 
who endeavor to break through the magic 
circle, and seize their new sister. After 
long struggling they succeed ; and the 
crown is taken from her head and the jew- 
els from her neck, and her bodice is un- 
laced and her kirtle taken off ; and like a 
vestal vii'gin clad all in white she goes, but 
it is to her marriage chamber, not to her 
grave ; and the wedding guests follow her 
with lighted candles in their hands. And 
this is a village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly chan- 
ging seasons of the Northern clime. There 
is no long and lingering spring, unfolding 
leaf and blossom one by one ; no long 
and lingering autumn, pompous with 
many-colored leaves and the glow of In- 
dian summers. But winter and summer 
are wonderful, and pass into each other. 
The quail has hardly ceased piping in the 
corn, when winter from the folds of trail- 
ing clouds sows broadcast over the land 
snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days 
wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises 
above the horizon, or does not rise at all. 
The moon and the stars shine through the 
day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, 
and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, 
as of simset, burns along the horizon, and 
then goes out. And pleasantly under the 
silver moon, and under the silent, solemn 
stars, ring the steel-shoes of the skaters on 
the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound 
of bells. 

And now the Northern Liglits begin to 
burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams play- 
ing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a 
soft crimson glow tinges the heavens. 
There is a blush on the cheek of night. 
The colors come and go, and change from 
crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. 
The snow is stained with rosy light. Two- 



fold from the zenith, east and west, flame» 
a fiery sword ; and a broad band passes 
athwart the heavens like a summer sunset. 
Soft purple clouds come sailing over the 
sky, and through their vapory folds the 
winking stars shine white as silver. With 
such pomp as this is Merry Christmas 
ushered in, though only a single star her- 
alded the first Christmas. And in mem- 
ory of that day the Swedish peasants dance 
on straw ; and the peasant-girls throw 
straws at the timbered roof of the liall, and 
for every one that sticks in a crack shall a 
groomsman come to tlieir wedding. Merry 
Christmas indeed ! For pious souls there 
shall be church songs and sermons, but for 
Swedisli peasants, brandy and nut-brown 
ale in wooden bowls ; and the great Yule- 
cake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded 
Avith apples, and uphohUng a three-armed 
candlestick over the Christmas feast. They 
may tell tales, too, of Jcins Lundsbracka, 
and Lunkenfus, and the great Riddar 
Finke of Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer 
full of blossoms and the song of nightin- 
gales, is come ! Saint John has taken the 
flowers and festival of heathen Balder ; 
and in every village there is a May-pole 
fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses and 
ribbons streaming in the wind, and a noisy 
weather-cock on top, to tell the village 
whence the wind cometh and whither it 
goeth. The sun does not set till ten o'clock 
at night; and the children are at play in 
the streets an hour later. The windows and 
doors are all open, and you may sit and 
read till midnight witliout a candle. 0, 
how beautiful is the summer night, Avhich 
is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded 
day, descending upon earth with dews and 
sliadows and refreshing coolness ! How 
l)eautiful the long, mild twiliglit, which 
like a silver clasp unites to-day with yester- 
day ! How beautiful the silent hour, when 
Morning and Evening thus sit together, 
hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of 
midniglit ! From the cliurch-tower in the 
public square the bell tolls the hour, with 
a soft, musical chime ; and the watchman, 
whose Avatch-tower is the belfry, blows a 
blast in his horn, for each stroke of the 
hammer, and four times, to the four cor- 
ners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he 
chants, — 

" Ko ! watchman, ho ! 

Twelve is the clock ! 

God keep our town 

From fire and brand 

And hostile hand ! 

Twelve is the clock ! " 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he 
* Titles of Swedish popular tales. 



NOTES. 



475 



ban see the sun all night long ; and farther 
north the priest stantls at his door in the 
warm midnight, and lights his pipe with a 
common burning-glass. 

Page 30. The Feast of the Leafy Pa- 
vilions. 

In Swedish, Lofhyddohiigtiden, the Leaf- 
huts'-high-tide. 

Page 30. Horherg. 

The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is 
known chieliy by his altar-pieces in the 
village churches. 

Page 30. Wall'in. 

A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. 
ETe is particularly remarkable for the beau- 
ty and sublimity of his psalms. 

Page 45. As Lope says. 

"La colera 
de un Espaiiol sentado no se tenipla, 
iino le representan en dos lioras 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis " 

Lope de Vega. 

Page 46, Ahrenuncio Satanas ! 

''Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo 
que tengo dicho, que de los azotes aliernun- 
cio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, Sancho, 
y .no como decis, dijo el Duque." — Z)(W 
Quixote, Part II. ch. 35. 

Page 50. Fray Carrillo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epi- 
^am. 

" Siempre Fray Carrllo estis 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas ! ■' 

Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 611. 

Page 50. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 

" 'Padro Francesco, 
Padre Francesco ! ' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco ? — 
' V e una bella ra^azzina 
Che si vuole confessar I ' 
Fatte I' entrare, fatte 1' entrare! 
Che la voglio confes.sare." 

Ko-piscli. Volkstliumlir.he Poesien aus al- 
ien Miindarten Italiens und seiner In- 
seln, p. 194. 

Page 51. Ave ! cuj'us calcem dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth 
century, in Sir Alexander Croke's Essay 
on the Origin, Progress, and Decline of 
Rhyming Latin Verse, p. 109. 

Page 54. The gold of the Busni. 

Busne is the name given by the Gypsies 
to all who are not of their race. 



Page 54. Count of the Cales. 

The Gypsies call themselves Cales. See 
Borrow's valuable and extremely interest- 
ing work, The Zincali ; or an Account of 
the Gypsies in Spain. London, 1841. 

Page h^. Asks if his money-bags xoould 
rise. 

" I Y volviendome a im lado, vi a un 
Avariento, que estaba preguntando a otro, 
(cj[ue por haber sido embalsamado, y estar 
lexos sus tripas no hablaba, porque no 
liabian llegado si hubian de resucitar aqnel 
dia todos los enterrados) si resucitarian 
unos bolsones suyos 'i " — El Suerw de las 
Calaveras. 

Page 56. And amen! said my Cid the 
Campeador. 
A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

" Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 3044. 

Page 56. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante ; 

" Si che chiaro 
Per essa scenda della mente il fiume." 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; 
though I do not recollect in which of his 
poems. 

Page 57. Mari FroMca. 
A common Spanish proverb, used to turn 
aside a question one does not wish to an- 
swer ; 

" Porque cas J Mari Franca 
quatro leguas de Salamanca." 

Page 57. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, witli good reason, con- 
sider this color of the eye as beautiful, and 
celebrate it in song ; as, for example, in 
the well-known ViUancico : 

" Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 

Bold de Faber. Floresta, No. 255 

Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emer- 
alds. Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami says, 
in his Annotazioni, "Erano i suoi occhi d' 
un turchhio verdiccio, simile a quel del 
mare." 

Page 58. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infantt 
Vengador, and Calaynos. 

Page 58. A II are sleeping. 

From the Spanish. Bohl de Faher. 
Floresta, No. 282. 



476 



NOTES. 



Page 63. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the 
songs immediately following, and that 
which commences the first scene of Act III. 

Page 70. The evil eye. 

" In the Gitano language, casting the 
evil eye is called Querelar nasula, which 
simply means making sick, and which, ac- 
'cording to the common superstition, is 
accomplished by casting an evil look at 
people, especially children, who, from the 
tenderness of their constitution, are sup- 
posed to be more easily blighted than those 
of a more mature age. After receiving the 
evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few 
hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say 
respecting the evil eye, though the belief 
in it is very prevalent, especially in Anda- 
lusia, amongst the lower orders. A stag's 
horn is considered a good safeguard, and 
on that account a small horn, tipped with 
silver, is frequently attached to the chil- 
dren's necks by means of a cord braided 
from the hair of a black mare's tail. 
Should the evil glance be cast, it is im- 
agined that the horn receives it, and in- 
stantly snaps asunder. Such horns may 
be purchased in some of the silversmiths' 
shops at Seville." — Borrow's Zincali, 
Vol. I. eh. ix. 



Page 70. 
stand. 



On the top of a mountain I 



This and the following scraps of song 
are from Borrow's Zincali ; or an Account 
of the Gypsies in Spain. 

The Gypsy words in the same scene may 
be thus interpreted : — 

John- Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at night- 
fall. 

Rastilleros, footpads. 
^ Hermit, highway-robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Comraandinents, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person 
asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing John, to take 
flight. 

Page 74. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish ; as is likewise the 
song of the Contrabandista on page 75. 



Page 77. All the Foresters of Flan- 
ders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the 
early governors of Flanders, appointed by 
the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, 
in the days of Clotaire the Second, was the 
first of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, 
who stole away the fair Judith, daughter 
of Charles the Bald, from the French 
court, and married her in Bruges, was the 
last. After him the title of Forester wa« 
changed to that of Count. Philippe d' Al- 
sace, Guy de Dampierre, and Louis de 
Crecy, coming later in the order of time, 
were therefore rather Counts than Forest- 
ers. Philippe went twice to the Holy 
Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague 
at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly after the cap- 
ture of the city by the Christians. Guy 
de Dampierre died in the prison of Com- 
piegne. Louis de Cr^ oy Avas son and suc- 
cessor of Robert de Betliune, who strangled 
his wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with the 
bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, at 
the age of eleven years, Charles, his son 
by his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 

Page 77. Stately dames, like queens at- 
tended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, 
visited Flanders ■with his queen, she was 
so astonished at the magnificence of the 
dames of Bruges, that she exclaimed : 
" Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il 
parait que ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent 
dans nos prisons sont tons des princes, car 
leurs femmes sont habillees comme des 
princesses et des reines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bru- 
ges, and Ypres went to Paris to pay 
homage to King John, in 1351, they were 
received with great pomp and distinction ; 
but, being invited to a festival, they ob- 
served that their seats at table were not 
furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to 
make known their displeasure at this want 
of regard to their dignity, they folded 
their richly embroidered cloaks and seated 
themselves upon them. On rising from 
table, they left their cloaks behind them, 
and, being informed of their apparent for- 
getfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgo- 
master of Bruges, replied, " We Flenungs 
are not in the habit of carrying away our 
cushions after dinner." 

Page 77. Knights who bore the Fleece 
of Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le 
Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal on the 
10th of January, 1430 ; and on the same 
day instituted the famous order of tho 
Fleece of Gold. 



NOTES. 



477 



Page 77. 1 beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, 
was left by the death of her father, 
Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, 
the richest heiress of Europe. She came 
to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 
1477, and in the same year was married by 
proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. Ac- 
cording to the custom of the time, the 
Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substitute, 
slept with the princess. They were both 
in complete dress, separated by a naked 
sword, and attended by four armed guards. 
Marie was adored by her subjects for her 
gentleness and her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor 
Frederick the Third, and is the same per- 
son mentioned afterwards in the poem of 
Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maximilian, and 
the hero of Pfinzing's poem of Teuerdank. 
Having been imprisoned by the revolted 
burghers of Bruges, they refused to release 
him, till he consented to kneel in the pub- 
lic square, and to swear on the Holy Evan- 
gelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that 
he would not take vengeance upon them 
for their rebellion. 

Page 77. The bloody baitle of the Spurs 
of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in 
Flemisli history, was fought under the 
walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July, 
1302, between the French and the Flem- 
ings, the former commanded by Robert, 
Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guil- 
laume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de 
Namur. The French army was completely 
routed, Avith a loss of twenty thousand in- 
fantry and seven thousand cavalry; among 
whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and 
counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and 
eleven hundred noblemen. The flower of 
the French nobility perished on that day ; 
to Avhich liistory has given the name of the 
Jonrnee des Eperons d'Or, from the great 
number of golden spurs found on the field 
of battle. Seven hundred of them were 
hung up as a trophy in the church of No- 
tre Dame de Courtray ; and, as the cava- 
liers of that day wore but a single spur 
each, these vouched to God for the violent 
and bloody death of seven hundred of his 
creatures. 

Page 77. Saw the fight at Minneioater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were 
digging a canal at Minnewater, to bring 
the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their 
city, they were attacked and routed by the 
citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would 
have been much injured by the canal. 
They were led by Jeau Lyons, captain of a 



military company at Ghent, called the 
Chaperons Blancs. He had great sway 
over the turbulent popidace, who, in those 
prosperous times of the city, gained an 
easy livelihood by laboring two or three 
days in the week, and had the remaining 
four or five to devote to public affairs. 
The fight at Minnewater was followed by 
open rebellion against Louis de Maele, the ' 
Count of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. 
His superb chateau of Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents 
forced the gates of Bruges, and entered in 
triumph, with Lyons mounted at theii* 
head. A few days afterwards he died sud- 
denly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a 
check at the village of Nevele ; and two 
hundred of them perished in the church, 
which was burned by the Count's orders. 
One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took 
refuge in the belfry. From the summit of 
the tower he held forth his purse filled 
with gold, and begged for deliverance. It 
was in vain. His enemies cried to him 
from below to save himself as best he 
might ; and, half suffocated with smoke 
and flame, he threw himself from the tow- 
er and perished at their feet. Peace was 
soon afterwards established, and the Count 
retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 77. The Golden Dragon's nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the 
church of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, in 
one of the Crusades, and placed on the 
belfry of Bruges, was afterwards trans- 
ported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, 
and still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at 
Ghent is, "" Mynen naem is Roland; ah 
ik klep is er brand, and als ik luy is er 
victorie in het land." My name is Roland ; 
when I toll there is fire, and when I ring 
there is victory in the land. 

Page 79. That their great imperial 
city stretched its hand through every clime. 
An old popiilar proverb of the town runs 
thus : — 

" Nurnberg''s Hand 
Geht durch alle Land.'''' 
Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 79. Sat the poet Melchior singing 
Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most 
celebrated German poets of the sixteenth 
century. The hero of his Teuerdank was 
the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and 
the poem was to the Germans of that day 
what the Orlando Furioso was to the Ital- 



478 



NOTES. 



ians, Maximilian is mentioned before, in 
i\iQ Belfry of Bruges. See page 77. 

Page 79. In the church of sainted Se- 
bald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 

Tlie tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church 
which bears his name, is one of the richest 
works of art in Nuremberg. It is of 
bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and 
his sons, wlio labored upon it thirteen 
years. It is adowied with nearly one 
hundred figures, among which those of the 
Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size 
and beauty. 

Page 80. In the church of sainted Law- 
rence stands a pix of sculpture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of 
the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam 
Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculj?- 
ture in white stone, and rises to the height 
of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, 
whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colors. 



Page 
Masters. 



Wisest of the Twelve Wise 



The TAvelve Wise Masters was the title 
of the original corporation of the Master- 
singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nu- 
remberg, though not one of the original 
Twelve, Avas the most renoAvned of the 
Mastersingers, as well as the most volumi- 
nous. He flourished in tlie sixteenth cen- 
tury ; and left behind him thirty-four folio 
volumes of manuscript, containing two 
hundred and eight plays, one thousand 
and seven hundred corrtic tales, and be- 
tween four and five thousand lyric poems. 

Page 80. As in Adam Puschinan's 
song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the 
death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he 
appeared in a vision : — 

" An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove-like. 
Who had, ui sooth, a great beard. 
And read in a fair, great book. 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 84. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is 
incorrect ; as I apply to a constellation 
what can properly be applied to some of 
its stars only. But my observation is 
made from the hill of song, and not from 
that of science ; and will, I trust, be found 
sufficiently accurate for the present pur- 
pose. 

Page 86. Who, unharmed, on his tusks 
once caught the holts of the thunder. 
"A delegation of warriors from the Del- 



aware tribe having visited the governor of 
Virginia, during the Revolution, on mat- 
ters of business, after these had been dis- 
cussed and settled in council, the governor 
asked them some questions relative to 
their country, and among others, what 
they knew or had heard of the animal 
wliose bones Avere found at the Saltlicks 
on the Ohio. Their chief speaker immedi- 
ately put himself into an attitude of ora- 
tory, and with a pomp suited to what he 
conceived the elevation of his subject, in- 
formed him that it was a tradition handed 
down from their fathers, ' that in ancient 
times a herd of these tremendous animals 
came to the Big-bone licks, and began an 
universal destruction of the bear, deer, 
elks, buffaloes, and other animals which 
had been created for the use of the Indians : 
that the Great Man above, looking down 
and seeing this, was so enraged that he 
seized his lightning, descended on the earth, 
seated himself on a neighboring mountain, 
on a rock of Avhich his seat and the print 
of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled 
his bolts among them till the whole were 
slaughtered, except the big bull, who, pre- 
senting his forehead to the shafts, shook 
them off" as they fell ; but missing one at 
length, it Avounded him in the side; 
Avhereon, springing round, he bounded 
over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illi- 
nois, and finally over the great lakes, 
AA'here he is liAdng at this day.'" — Jef- 
ferson's Notes on Virginia, Query VI. 

Page 88. Walter von der Vogelweid. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird- 
MeadoAV, Avas one of the principal Minne- 
singers of the thirteenth century. He 
triumphed OA^er Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, 
knoAvn in literary history as the War of 
Wartburg, 

Page 91. Like imperial Charlemagne. 
Charlemagne may be called by pre-emi- 
nence the monarch of farmers. According 
to the German tradition, in seasons of great 
abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine on 
a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the 
cornfields and the vineyards. During his 
lifetime, he did not disdain, says Montes- 
quieu, "to sell the eggs from the farm- 
yards of his domains, and the superfluous ^ 
vegetables of his gardens ; Avhile he distrib- a 
uted among his people the Avealth of the rt 
Lombards and the immense treasures of 
the Huns." 
Page 124. 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering m/zsi 

Is swung into its place. 



NOTES. 



479 



I wish to anticipate a criticism on this pas- 
• sage, by stating, that sometimes, tliougli not 
usually, vessels are launched fully sparred 
and rigged, I have availed myself of the 
exception as better suited to my purposes 
than the general rule ; but the reader will 
see that it is neither a blunder nor a poetic 
license. On tliis subject a friend in Port- 
land, Maine, writes me tlius : — 

'' In this State, and also, I am told, in 
New York, sliips are sometimes rigged 
upon the stocks, in order to save time, or 
to make a show. There was a fine, large 
ship launched last summer at Ellsworth, 
fully sparred and rigged. Some years ago 
a sliip was launched here, with her rigging, 
spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed 
the next day and — was never heard of 
again ! I hope this will not be the fate 
of your poem ! " 

Page 127. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 

" Wlien the wind abated and the vessels 
were near enough, the Admiral was seen 
constantly sitting in the stern, with a book 
in his hand. On the 9th of September he 
was seen for the last time, and was heard 
by the people of the Hind to say, ' We are 
as near heaven by sea as by land.' In the 
following night, the lights of the ship sud- 
denly disappeared. The people in the other 
vessel kept d good lookout for him during 
the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d 
of September they arrived, through much 
tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But noth- 
ing more was seen or heard of the Admi- 
ral." — Belknap's American Biogra'phy, 
I. 203. 

Page 135. The Blind Girl of Castel- 
Cuille. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful 
poem, is to the South of France what 
Burns is to the South of Scotland, — the 
representative of the heart of tlie people, 
— one of tliose happy bards who are born 
with, their mouths full of birds {la hoaco 
pleno d^aouzelo'us). He has written his 
own biography in a poetic form, and the 
simple narrative of his poverty, his strug- 
gles, and his triumphs, is very touching. 
He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne ; 
and long may he live there to deliglit his 
native land with native songs ! 

The folloAving description of his person 
and way of life is taken from the graphic 
pages of " Beam and the Pyrenees," by 
Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming 
pen has done so much to illustrate the 
French provinces and their literature. 

" At the entrance of the promenade, Du 
Gravier, is a row of small houses, — some 
^af6s, others shops, the indication of which 



is a painted cloth placed across the way, 
with the owner's name in bright gold let. 
ters, in the manner of the arcades in the 
streets, and their announcements. One of 
the most glaring of these was, we observed, 
a bright blue flag, bordered with gold ; on 
which, in large gold letters, appeared tha 
name of 'Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, 
and were welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed 
woman, who informed us that her husband 
was busy at that moment dressing a cus- 
tomer's hair, but he was desirous to receive 
us, and begged we would walk into his par. 
lor at the back of the shop. 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of 
gold, of delicate workmanship, sent from 
the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to 
the poet; who will probably one day take 
his place in the capitoid. Next came a 
golden cup, with an inscription in his honor, 
given by the citizens of Audi ; a gold watch, 
chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis 
Philippe; an emerald ring worn and pre- 
sented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; 
a pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, Avho, 
on the poet's visit to Paris accompanied by 
his son, received him in the words he puts 
into the mouth of Henri Quatre:— - 
' Brabes Gaseous ! 
A moun amou per bous aou dibes oreyre : 
Benes ! benes ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 
Aproucha bous ! ' 

A fine service of linen, the offering of the 
town of Pan, after its citizens had given 
fetes in his honor, and loaded him with ca- 
resses and praises ; and knickknacks and 
jewels of all descriptions offered to him by 
lady-ambassadresses, and great lords ; Eng- 
lish ' misses ' and ' miladis ' ; and French, 
and foreigners of all nations who did or did 
not understand Gascon. 

•'All this, though startling, was not con- 
vincing; Jasmin, the barber, might only be 
a fashion, ^furore, a caprice, after all; and 
it was evident that he knew how to get up 
a scene well. When we had become nearly 
tired of looking over these tributes to his 
genius, the door opened, and the poet him-/ 
self appeared. His manner was free and 
unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively ; he 
received our compliments naturally, and' 
like one accustomed to homage ; said he 
was ill, and unfortunately too hoarse to 
read anything to us, or should have been 
delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad 
Gascon accent, and very rajiidly and elo- 
quently; ran over the story of his successes; 
told us that his grandfather had been a beg- 
gar, and all his family very poor; that he 
was now as rich as he wislied to be ; his son 
placed in a good position at Nantes ; then 
showed us his son's picture, and spoke of 



480 



NOTES. 



his disposition; to Avhicli his brisk little 
wife added, that, though no fopl, he had 
not his father's genius, to which tnith Jas- 
min assented as a matter of course. I told 
him of having seen mention made of him 
in an Englisli review ; which he said had 
been sent him by Lord Durham, who had 
paid him a visit ; and I then sjjoke of ' Me 
cal mouri ' as known to me. This was 
enough to make him forget his hoarseness 
and every other evil : it would never do for 
me to imagine that that little song was his 
best composition ; it was merely his first ; 
he must try to read to me a little of 
'L'Abuglo,' — a few verses of ' Fran^ou- 
neto.' 'You will be charmed,' said he; 
*but if I were well, and you would give 
me the pleasure of your company for some 
time, if you were not merely running 
through Ageu, I would kill you with weep- 
ing, — I would make you die with distress 
for my poor Margarido, — my pretty Fran- 
§ouneto ! ' 

" He caught Tip two cupies of his book, 
from a pile lying on the table, and making 
us sit close to him, he pointed out tho 
French translation on one side, which he 
told us to follow while he read in Gascon. 
He began in a rich, soft voice, and as he 
advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hear- 
ing the player-king recite the disasters of 
Hecuba was but a type of ours, to find 
ourselves carried away by the spell of his 
enthusiasm. His eyes swam in tears; he 
became pale and red ; he trembled; he re- 
icovered himself ; his face was now joyous, 
now exulting, gay, jocose; in fact, he M'as 
twenty actors in one; he rang the changes 
from Rachel to Bouffe ; and he finished by 
delighting us, besides beguiling us of our 
tears, and overwhelming us with astonish- 
ment. 

" He would have been a treasure on the 
stage ; for he is still, though his first youth 
is past, remarkably good-looking and strik- 
ing ; with black, sparkling eyes, of intense 
expression; a fine, ruddy complexion; a 
countenance of wondrous mobility ; a good 
figure; and action full of fire and grace ; he 
has handsome hands, which he uses v/ith 
infinite eff'ect; and, on the whole, he is the 
best actor of the kind I ever saw. I could 
now quite understand what a troubadour 
or jongleur might be, and I look upon 
Jasmin as a revived specimen of tliat ex- 
tinct race. Such as he is might have been 
Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of 
Coeur de Lion, who lamented the death of 
the hero in such moving strains; such might 
have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang 
the praises of Queen Elinore's beauty ; such 
Geofi"rey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Ga- 
ronne such the wild Vidal : certain it is, 



that none of these troubadours of old could 
more move, by their singing or reciting, 
than Jasmin, in whom all their long-smoth- 
ered fire and traditional magic seems re- 
illumined. 

" We found we had stayed hours instead 
of minutes with the poet; but he would 
not hear of any apology, — only regretted 
that his voice was so out of tune, in con- 
sequence of a violent cold, under which he 
was really laboring, and hoped to see us 
again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau 
had laden him with kindness and attention, 
and spoke with such enthusiasm of the 
beauty of certain 'misses,' that I feared 
his little wife would feel somewhat piqued*, 
but, on the contrary, she stood by, smiling 
and happy, and enjoying the stories of his 
triumphs. I remarked that he had restored 
the poetry of the troubadours ; asked him 
if he knew their songs; and said he was 
worthy to stand at their head. ' I am, in- 
deed, a troubadour,' said he, with energy; 
' but I am far beyond them all : they were 
but beginners ; they never composed a poem 
like my Frangouneto ! there are no poets in 
France now, — there cannot be ; the lan- 
guage does not admit of it; where is the 
fire, the spirit, the expression, the tender- 
ness, the force of the Gascon 't. French is 
but the ladder to reach to the first floor of 
Gascon, — how can you get up to a height 
except by a ladder ! ' 

" I returned by Agen, after an absence 
in the Pyrenees of some months, and re- 
newed my acquaintance with Jasmin and 
his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that 
I should be recognized ; but the moment I 
entered the little sliop I was hailed as an 
old friend. ' Ah ! ' cried Jasmin, ' enfin la 
voila encore ! ' I could not but be flattered 
by this recollection, but soon found it was 
less on my own account that I was thus 
welcomed, than becaiise a circumstance' 
had occurred to the poet which he thouglit 
I could perhaps explain. He produced 
several French newspapers, in wliich he 
pointed out to me an article headed ' Jas- 
min k Londres '; being a translation of cer- 
tain notices of himself, which had appeared 
in a leading English literary journal. He 
had, he said, been informed of the honor 
done him by numerous friends, and assured 
me his fame had been much spread by this 
means ; and he Avas so delighted on the 
I occasion, that he had resolved to learn Eng- 
lish, in order that he might judge of the 
translations from his works, which, he had 
been told, were well done. I enjoyed his 
surprise, while I informed him that I knew 
who was the reviewer and translator ; and 
explained the reason for the verses giving 



NOTES. 



481 



pleasure in an English dress to be the su- 
perior simplicity of the English language 
over Modern French, for which he has a 
great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical com- 
position. He inquired of me respecting 
Burns, to whom he had been likened ; and 
begged me to tell him something of Moore. 
The delight of himself and his wife was 
amusing, at having discovered a secret 
which had puzzled them so long. 

" He had a tliousand things to tell me ; 
in particular, that he had only the day be- 
fore received a letter from the Duchess of 
Orleans, informing him that she had or- 
dered a medal of her late husband to be 
struck, the first of which would be sent to 
him : she also announced to him the agree- 
able news of the king having granted him 
a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled 
and wept by turns, as he told us all this ; 
and declared, much as he was elated at the 
possession of a sum which made him a rich 
man for life, the kindness of the Duchess 
gratified him even more. 

" He then made us sit down while he read 
us two new poems ; both charming, and full 
of grace and naivete ; and one very affect- 
ing, being an address to the king, alluding 
to the death of his son. As he read, his 
wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite 
comprehend his language, she made a re- 
mark to that effect : to which he answered 
impatiently, ' Nonsense, — don't you see 
they are in tears ? ' This was unanswer- 
able ; and we were allowed to hear the poem 
to the end ; and I certainly nf v^er listened 
to anything more feelingly and energetically 
delivered. 

"We had much conversation, for he was 
anxious to detain us, and, in the course of 
it, he told me he had been by some accused 
of vanity. '0,' he rejoined, ' what would 
you have ! I am a child of nature, and can- 
not conceal my feelings ; the only difference 
between me and a man of refinement is, 
that he knows how to conceal his vanity 
and exultation at success, which I let every- 
body see.' "—jBearw and the Pyrenees^ I. 
369, et seq. 

Page 140. A Christmas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas 
in Burgundy is from M. Fertiault's Coup 
cVCEil sur les Noels en Bourgogne, prefixed 
to the Paris edition of Les Noels Bourgui- 
gnons de Bernard de la Monnoye {Gid 
Bardzai), 1842. 

"Every year at the approach of Advent, 
people refresh their memories, clear their 
throats, and begin preluding, in the long 
evenings by the fireside, those carols whose 
invariable and eternal theme is the coming 
of the Messiah. They take from old clos- 



ets pamphlets, little collections begrimed 
with dust and smoke, to which the press, 
and sometimes the pen, has consigned these 
songs ; and as soon as the first Sunday 
of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad 
about, they sit together by the fireside, 
sometimes at one house, sometimes at an- 
other, taking turns in paying for the chest- 
nuts and white wine, but singing with one 
common voice the grotesque praises of the 
Little Jesus. There are very few villages 
even, which, during all the evenings of Ad- 
vent, do not hear some of these curious 
canticles shouted in their streets, to the 
nasal drone of bagpipes. In this case the 
minstrel comes as a reinforcement to the 
singers at the fireside; he brings and adds 
his dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, 
it matters little which) to the joy which 
breathes around the hearth-stone; and 
when the voices vibrate and resound, one 
voice more is always welcome. There, it 
is not the purity of the notes which makes 
the concert, but the quantity, — 7ion qual- 
itas, sed quantitas ; then (to finish at 
once with the minstrel), when the Saviour 
has at length been born in the manger, and 
the beautiful Christmas Eve is passed, the 
rustic piper makes his round among the 
houses, where every one compliments and 
thanks him, and, moreover, gives him in 
small coin the price of the shrill notes with 
which he has enlivened the evening enter- 
tainments. 

"More or less until Christmas Eve, all 
goes on in this way among our devout sing- 
ers, with the difference of some gallons of 
wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. But 
this famous eve once come, the scale ia 
pitched upon a higher key; the closing 
evening must be a memorable one. The 
toilet is begun at nightfall ; then comes 
the hour of supper, admonishing divers ap- 
petites ; and groups, as numerous as possi- 
ble, are formed to take together this com- 
fortable evening repast. The supper fin- 
ished, a circle gathers around the hearth, 
which is arranged and set in order this 
evening after a particular fashion, and 
which at a later hour of the night is to be- 
come the object of special interest to the 
children. On the burning brands an enor- 
mous log has been placed. This log as- 
suredly does not change its nature, but it 
changes its name during this evening : it is 
called the Suche (the Yule-log). 'Look 
you,' say they to the children, ' if you are 
good this evening, Noel ' (for with children 
one must always personify) ' will rain down 
sugar-plums in the night.' And the chil- 
dren sit demurely, keeping as quiet as 
their turbulent little natures will permit. 
The groups of older persons^ not always as 



482 



NOTES. 



orderly as the children, seize this good op- 
portunity to surrender themselves with 
merry liearts and boisterous voices to the 
chanted worsliip of the miraculous Noel. 
For this final solemnity, they have kept 
the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, 
the most electrifying carols. Noel ! Noel ! 
Noel ! This magic word resounds on all 
sides ; it seasons every sauce, it is served 
up with every course. Of the thousands 
of canticles which are heard on this famous 
eve, ninety-nine in a hundred begin and 
end with this word; which is, one may 
say, their Alpha and Omega, their crown 
and footstool. This last evening, the mer- 
ry-making is prolonged. Instead of retir- 
ing at ten or eleven o'clock, as is generally 
done on all the preceding evenings, tliey 
wait for tlae stroke of nudnight : this word 
sufficiently proclaims to what ceremony 
they are going to repair. For ten minutes 
or a quarter of an hour, the bells have been 
calling the faithful with a ti'iple-bob-major ; 
and each one, furnished with a little taper 
streaked with various colors (the Christ- 
mas Candle), goes through the crowded 
streets, where the lanterns are dancing like 
Willo'-the-Wisps, at the impatient sum- 
mons of the multitudinous chimes. It is 
the Midnight Mass. Once inside the 
church, they hear with more or less piety 
the Mass, emblematic of the coming of the 
Messiah. Then in tumult and great haste 
they return homeward, always in numer- 
ous' groups ; tb'^y salute the Yule-log; they 
pay homage to the hearth ; they sit down 
at table; and, amid songs wliich rever- 
berate louiler than ever, make this meal of 
after-Christmas, so long looked for, so 
cherished, so joyous, so noisy, and which 
it has been thought fit to call, we hardly 
know why, Rossignon. The supper eaten 
at nightfall is no impediment, as you may 
imagine, to the appetite's returning; above 
all, if the going to and from church has 
made the devout eaters feel some little 
shafts of the sharp and biting north-wind. 
Rossignnn then goes on merrily, — some- 
times far into the morning hours; but, 
nevertheless, gradually tliroats grov/ hoarse, 
stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns out, 
and at last the hour arrives when each one, 
as best he may, regains his domicile and 
his bed, and puts with himself between the 
sheets the material for a good sore-throat, 
or a good indigestion, for the n)orrow. 
Previous to this, care has been taken to 
place in the slippers, or wooden shoes of 
the children, the sugar-plums, which shall 
be for them, on their waking, the welcome 
fruits of the Christmas log." 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule-log, 
is thus defined : — 



"This is a huge log, which is placed on 
the fire on Christinas Eve, and which in 
Burgundy is called, on this account, lai 
Suche de Noei. Then the father of the 
family, particularly among the middle 
classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols 
with his wife and children, the smallest of 
whom he sends into the corner to pray that 
the Yule-log may bear him some sugar- 
plums. Meanwhile, little parcels of them 
are placed under each end of tlie log, and 
the children come and pick them up, be- 
lieving, in good faith, that the great log 
has borne them." 

Page 141. The Song of Hiawatha, 
This Indian Edda — if I may so call it — 
/is founded on a tradition prevalent among 
;|the North American Indians, of a person- 
[age of nuraculous birth, who was sent 
; among them to clear their rivers, forests, 
j and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the 
arts of peace. He was known among dif- 
ferent tribes by the several names of 
Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenya- 
wagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft 
gives an account of him in his AUjic Re- 
searches, Vol. I. p. 134 ; and in his His- 
torij, Condition, and Prospects of the In- 
dian Tribes of the United States, Part III, 
p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of 
the tradition, derived from the verbal nar- 
rations of an Onondaga chief. 

Into this old tradition I have woven 
other curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly 
from the various and valuable writings of 
Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the literary- 
world is greatly indebted for his indefati- 
gable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so 
much of the legendary lore of the Indians. 
The scene of the poem is among the 
Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake 
Superior, in the region between the Pic 
tured Rocks and the Grand Sable. 

VOCABULARY. 

Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 

Ahdeek', the reindeer. 

Ahkose'wiu, fever. 

Ahiiieek', the heaver. 

Algon'quiii, Ojihioay. 

Annemee'kee, the thunder. 

Apuk'wa, a bulrush. 

Baiiu-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder. 

Beinah'gut, the grapevine. 

Bc'aa, the pheasant. 

Biy-Sea-Water, Lake Superior. 

Bukada'win, famine. 

Clieemaun', « birch canoe. 

Chetowaik', the plover. 

Chibia'bos, a musician ; friend of Hiawathai 

jruler in the Land of Spirits. 
Dahiu'da, the hull-froq. 

Dush-kA^-ne'she, or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fiif. 
Esa, shame lipon yo^i. 
Ewa-yea', lullaby. 



NOTES. 



483 



Ghee'zis, the sun. 

Gitciie Gu'mee, the Big-Sea-Water, Lake Su- 
perior. 

GitcheMan'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life. 

Gushkewau', the darkness. 

Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher; son of 
Mudjekeewis, the U^est-Wind, and Wenonah, 
daughter of Nokomis. 

la'goo, a great boaster and story-teller. 

Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game oftlie Bowl. 

Ishkoodali', fire ; a comet. 

Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. 

Joss'akeecl, a prophet. 

Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind. 

Kagh, the hedge-hog. 

Ka'go, do not 

Kahgaligee', the raven. 

Kav/, no. 

Kaween', no indeed. 

Kayoshk', the sea-gull. 

Kee'go, a fish. 

Keeway'din, the Northwest-Wind, the Home-wind. 

Kena'beek, a serpent. 

Keneu', the great war-eagle. 

Keno'zha, the pickerel. 

Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl. 

Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. 

Kwa'sind, the Strong Man. 

Kwo-ne'slie, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon- 
fly. 

Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. 

Mahng, the loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 

Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. 

Ma'ma, the woodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha, the pike. 

Me'da, a medicine-man. 

Meenali'ga, the blueberry. 

Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a magi- 
cian, and the Manito of Wealth. 

Meshinan'wa, a pipe-bearer. 

Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 

Minneha'ha, Laughing Water ; a waier-fall on 
a stream running into the Mississippi, betvjeen 
Fort Snelling and the Falls of St. Anthony. 

Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; nnfe of Hiawatha. 

Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the luind 
in the trees. 

Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. 

Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon. 

Miskodeed', the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia 
Virginica. 

Monda'niin, Indian corn. 

Moon of Bright Nights, April. 

Moon of LeaA^es, May. 

Moon of Strawberries, June. 

Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. 

Moon of SnoAV-Shoes, November. 

Mudjekee^wis, the West-Wind; father of Hia- 
watha. 

Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore. 

Mushkoda'sa, the grouse. 

Nah'ina, the sturgeon. 

Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint. 

Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Su- 
perior. 

Nee-ba-naw'baigs, water spirits. 

Nenemoo'sha, sv)eetheart. 

Nepah'win, sleep. 

Noko'mis, a grandmother ; mother of Wenonah. 

No'sa, my father. 

Kush'ka, look ! look ! 

Odah'min, the strawberry. i 



Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring. 

Onie'nie, tlie pigeon. 

Ona'gon, a bowl. 

Oiiaway', awake. 

Ope'ehee, the robin. 

Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 

Owais'sa, the bluebird. 

Oweeiiee', ivife of Osseo. 

Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in 
the Game of the Bowl. 

Pah-puk-kee'ua, the grasshopper. 

Pau'guk, death. 

Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the 
Storm Fool. 

Pauwa'ting, Sa^it Sainte Marie. 

Pe'boan, Winter. 

Pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried tmd 
pounded. 

Pezliekee', the bison. 

Pishnekuh', the brant. 

Pone mah, hereafter. 

Piigasaing', Game of the Bowl. 

Puggawau'gun, a war-club. 

Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pyg- 
mies. 

Sah-sali-je'wun, rapids. 

Sah'wa, the perch. 

Segwun', Spring. 

Slia'da, the pelican. 

Shahbo'min, the gooseberry. 

Shah-sliali, long ago. 

Shaugoda'ya, a coward. 

Shawgashee', the craiv-fish. 

Shawonda'see, tlie South- Wind. 

Shaw-shaw, the s^aallow. 

Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the 
Boivl. 

Shin'gebis, the diver or grebe. 

Sliowain' neme'shin, pity me. 

Shnh-shuh'gah, the bine heron. 

Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted. 

Subbeka'.she, the spider. 

Sugge'ma, the mosquito. 

To'teni, family coat-of-arms. 

Ugli, yes. 

Ugudwash', the sun-fish. 

Unktahee', the God of Water. 

Wabas'so, the rabbit; the North. 

Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. 

Wabe'no-wusk, yarroio. 

Wa'bun, the East- Wind. 

Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the Morn- 
ing ■- tar. 

Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation. 

Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly. 

Wam'pum, beads of shell. 

Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper. 

Wa'wa, the xvild-goose. 

Waw'beek, a rock. 

Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose. 

Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill. 

Way-niuk-kwa'na, the caterjnllar. 

Wen'digoes, giants. 

Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter of No- 
komis. 

Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian 
dandy. 

Page 142. In the Vale of Tawasentha. 

This vallej-, now called Norman's Kill, 
is in Albany Count}^, New York. 



484 



NOTES. 



Page 142. Oti the Mountains of the Page 147. Hush! the Naked Bear will 

Prairie. hear thee ! 



Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on 
the Manners, Customs, and Condition of 
the North American Indians, Vol. II. p. 
160, gives an interesting account of the 
Coteait des Prairies, and the Red Pipe- 
stone Quarry. He says : — ■ 

"Here (according to their traditions) 
jhappened the mysterious birth of the red 
pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace 
and war to the remotest corners of the 
continent ; which has visited every war- 
rior, and passed tlirough its reddened stem 
the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. 
And here, also, the peace-breathing calu- 
met was born, and fringed with the eagle's 
quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes 
over tlie land, and soothed the fury of the 
relentless savage. 

''The Great Spirit at an ancient period 
here called the Indian nations together, 
and, standing on the precipice of the red 
pipe-stone rock, broke from its wall a 
piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it 
in his hand, which he smoked over them, 
and to the North, the South, the East, and 
the West, and told them that tliis stone 
was red, — that it was their flesh, — that 
they must use it for their pipes of peace, — 
that it belonged to them all, and that the 
war-club and scalping-knife must not be 
raised on its ground. At the last whifF of 
his pipe his head went into a great cloud, 
and the whole surface of the rock for sev- 
eral miles was melted and glazed ; two 
great ovens were opened beneath, and two 
women (guardian spirits of the place) en- 
tered them in a blaze of fire ; and they are 
heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso- 
me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the invo- 
cations of the high-priests or medicine-men, 
who consult them when they are visitors 
to this sacred place." 



Page 144. Ho.rJc you, Bear ! you are a 
coward. 

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In 
his account of the Indian Nations, he de- 
scribes an Indian hunter as addressing a 
bear in nearly these w^ords. " I was pres- 
ent," he says, " at the delivery of this cu- 
rious invective ; when the hunter had de- 
spatched the bear, I asked him how he 
thouglit that poor animal could under- 
stand what he said to it. '0,' said he 
in answer, 'the bear understood me very 
well; did you not observe how ashamed 
he looked while I was upbraiding him ?' " 
— Transactions of the American Philosoph- 
ical Society, Vol. I. p. 240. 



Heckewelder, in a letter published in 
the Transactions of the American Philo- 
sophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks 
of this tradition as prevalent among the 
Mohicans and Delawares. 

"Their reports," he says, "run thus; 
tliat among all animals that had been for- 
merly in this country, this was the most 
ferocious; that it was much larger than the 
largest of the common bears, and remai'k- 
ably long-bodied ; all over (except a spot 
of hair on its back of a white color) na- 
ked 

" The history of this animal used to be a 
subject of couversation among the Indians, 
especially when in the woods a hunting. 
I have also heard them say to their chil- 
dren when crying : ' Hush ! the naked bear 
will hear you, be upon you, and devour 
you.'" 

Page 151. Where the Falls of Minne- 
haha, etc. 

" The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich 
in beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are 
familiar tr travellers, and to readers of 
Indian skeoohes. Between the fort and 
these falls are the ' Little Falls,' forty feet 
in height, on a stream that empties into 
the Mississippi. The Indians called them 
Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" — 
Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, or Legends of 
the Sioux, Introd., p. ii. 

Page 165. Sand Hills of the Nagow 
Wudjoo. 

A description of the Grand Sable, or 
great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is given 
in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Ge- 
ology of the Lake Superior Land District, 
Part It. p. 131. 

"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic in- 
terest little inferior to that of the Pictured 
Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from 
a coast of consolidated sand to one of loose 
materials; and although in the one case 
the cliff's are less precipitous, yet in the 
other they attain a higher altitude. He 
sees before him a long reach of coast, re- 
sembling a vast sand-bank, more than three 
hundred and fifty feet in height, without a 
trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, 
rounded hillocks of blown sand are ob- 
served, with occasional clumps of trees, 
standing out like oases in the desert." 

Page 166. Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 

The original of this song may be found 
in Litteir.s Living Age, Vol. XXV. p. 451 



NOTES. 



485 



Page 167. 



On the Red Swan floating, off toward the sinking of the sun." 
10-12. • 



The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan 
may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic Re- 
searches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers 
were hunting on a wager to see who would 
bring home the first game. 

"They were to shoot no other animal," 
so the legend says, " but such as each was 
in the habit of killing. They set out dif- 
ferent ways : Odjibwa, the youngest, had 
not gone far before he saw a bear, an ani- 
mal he was not to kill, by the agreement. 
He followed him close, and drove an arrow 
through him, which brought him to the 
ground. Although contrary to the bet, he 
Immediately commenced skinning him, 
when suddenly something red tinged all 
the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, 
thinking he was perhaps deceived; but 
without effect, for the red hue continued. 
At length he heard a strange noise at a 
distance. It first appeared like a human 
voice, but after following the sound for 
some distance, lie reached the shores of a 
lake, and soon saw the object he was look- 
ing for. At a distance out in the lake sat 
a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage 
glittered in the sun, and who would now 
and then make the same noise he liad heard. 
He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling 
the arrow from the bowstring up to his ear, 
took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow 
took no effect; and he .shot and shot again 
till his quiver was empty. Still the swan 
remained, moving round and round, 
stretching its long neck and dipping its 
bill into the water, as if heedless of the 
arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and 
got all his own and his brother's arrows, 
and shot them all away. He then stood 
and gazed at the beautiful bird. While 
standing, he remembered his brother's say- 
ing that in their deceased father's medi- 
cine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he 
started, his anxiety to kill the swan over- 
coming all scruples. At any other time, 
he would have deemed it sacrilege to open 
his father's medicine-sack ; but now he 
hastily seized the three arrows and ran 
back, leaving the other contents of the 
sack scattered over the lodge. The swan 
was still there. He shot the first arrow 
Avith great precision, and came very near 
to it. The second came still closer; as he 
took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, 
and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass 
through the neck of the swan a little above 
the breast. Still it did not prevent the 
bird from flying off, which it did, however, 
at first slowly, flapping its wings and ris- 
ing gradually into the airj and then flying 



pp. 



Page 170. When I think of my belovefi. 
The original of this song may be found 
m Oneota, p. 15. 

Page 170. Sing the mysteries of Mon- 
damin. . 

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian 
corn, in great veneration. "They esteem 
it so important and divine a grain," says 
Schoolcraft, "that their story-tellers in- 
vented various tales, in which this idea is 
symbolized under the fomi of a special gift 
from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Al- 
gonqiiins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, 
the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty 
story of this kind, in which the stalk in 
full tassel is represented as descending 
from the sky, under the guise of a hand- 
some youth, in answer to the prayers of a 
young man at his fast of virility, or 
coming to manhood. 

"It is well known that corn-planting 
and corn-gathering, at least among all the 
still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to 
the females and children, and a few super- 
annuated old men. It is not generally 
known, perhaps, that this labor is not 
compulsory, and that it is assumed by the 
females as a just equivalent, in their view, 
for the onerous and continuous labor of 
the other sex, in providing meats, and 
skins for clothing, by the chase, and in 
defending their villages against their ene- 
mies, and keeping intruders off their terri- 
tories. A good Indian housewife deems 
this a part of her prerogative, and prides 
herself to have a store of corn to exercise 
her hospitality, or duly honor her hus- 
band's hospitality, in the entertainment of 
the lodge guests." — Oneota, p. 82. 



171. Thus the fields shall he more 
fruitful. 

"A singular proof of this belief, in both 
sexes, of the mysterious influence of the 
steps of a woman on the vegetable and in- 
sect creation, is found in an ancient cus- 
tom, which was related to me, respecting 
corn-planting. It was the practice of the 
hunter's wife, when the field of com had 
been planted, to choose the first dark oi^ 
overcloiided evening to perform a secret 
circuit, sans habillement, around the fielci. 
For this purpose she slipped out of the 
lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some 
obscure nook, where she completely dis- 
robed. Then, taking her matchecota, or 
principal garment, in one hand, she dragged 
it around the field. This was thought to 
insure a prolific crop^ and to prevent the 



486 



NOTES. 



assaults of insects and worms upon the 
grain. It \ras supposed they could not 
creep over the charmed line." — Oneota, p. 
83. 

Page 171. With his prisoner-string he 
hound him. 

"These cords," says Mr. Tanner, "are 
made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boil- 
ing and then immersing it in cold water. 
.... The leader of a Avar party com- 
monly carries several fastened about his 
•waist, and if, in the course of the light, 
any one of his young men takes a prisoner, 
it is his duty to bring him immediately to 
the chief, to be tied, and the latter is re- 
sponsible for his safe keeping." — Narra- 
tive of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412. 

Page 172. 

Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 

Paimosaid, ivho steals the inaize-ear. 

"If one of the young female buskers 
finds a red ear of corn, it is typical of a 
«rave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting 
present to some young warrior. But if the 
ear be crooked, and tapering to a point, no 
matter what color, the whole circle is set in 
a roar, and vxt-ge-min is the word shouted 
aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in tlie 
cornfield. It is considered as the image c 
an old man stooping as he enters the" lot. 
Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed 
to produce this image, it could not more 
vividly bring to the minds of the merry 
group the idea of a pilferer of their favorite 
monddmin 

"The literal meaning of the term is, a 
mass, or crooked ear of grain ; but the ear 
of corn so called is a conventional type of a 
little old man pilfering ears of corn in a 
cornfield. It is in this manner tliat a sin- 
gle word or term, in these curious lan- 
guages, becomes the fruitful parent of 
many ideas. And Ave can thus perceive 
why it is that the word loagemin is alone 
competent to excite merriment in the husk- 
ing circle. 

"This term is taken as the basis of the 
cereal chorus, or corn song, as sung by the 
Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled 
\vith the phrase Paimosaid, — a pernmta- 
tive form of the Indian substantive, made 
from the verb pim-o-sa, to Avalk. Its lit- 
eral meaning is, he toho walks, or the 
walker ; but the ideas conveyed by it are, 
he who Avalks by night to pilfer corn. It 
offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in 
expression to the preceding term." — One- 
6ta, p. 254. 

Page 177. Pugasaing, with thirteen 
pieces. 

, This Game of the Bowl is the principal 



game of hazard among the Northern tribes 
of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a par- 
ticular account of it in Oneota, p. 85. 
"This game," he says, "is very fascinat- 
ing to some portions of the Indians. They 
stake at it their ornaments, weapons, 
clothing, canoes, horses, everything in fact 
they possess ; and have been known, it is 
said, to set up their Avives and children, 
and even to forfeit their oavu liberty. Of 
such desperate stakes I have seen no ex 
am pies, nor do I think the game itself in 
common use. It is ratlier confined to cer- 
tain persons, who hold the relative rank of 
gamblers in Indian society, — men Avho are . 
not noted as hunters or Avarriors, or steady 
providers for tlieir families. Among these 
are persons Avho bear the term of lena- 
dizze-iuug, that is, Avanderers about the 
country, braggadocios, or fops. It can 
hardly be classed Avith the popular games 
of amusement, by Avhicli skill and dexter- 
ity are acquired. I have generally found 
the chiefs and graver men of the tribes, 
Avho encouraged the young men to play 
ball, and are sure to be present at the cus- 
tomary sports, to Avitness, and sanction, 
and applaud them, speak lightly and dis- 
paragingly of this game of hazard. Yet it 
cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, 
distinguished in Avar and the chase, at the 
West, can be referred to as lending their 
example to its fascinating poAver." 

See also his History, Condition, and 
Prospects of the Indian Tribes, Part II. 
p. 72. 

Page 181. To the Pictured Rocks of 
sandstone. 

The reader AAdll find a long description 
of the Pictured Rocks in Foster and Whit- 
ney's Report on the Geology of the Lake 
Superior Land District, Part II. p. 124. 
From this I make the folloAving extract : — 
j "The Pictured Rocks may be described, 
in general terms, as a series of sandstone 
bluffs extending along the shore of Lake 
Superior for about five miles, and rising, 
in most places, vertically from the Avater, 
without any beach at the base, to a height 
varying from fifty to nearly two hundred 
feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, 
they might not, so far as relates to height 
or extent, be Avorthy of a rank among great 
natural curiosities, although such an as- 
semblage of rocky strata, Avashed by the 
waves of the great lake, Avould not, under 
any circumstances, be destitute of gran- 
deur. To the voyager, coasting along their 
base in his frail canoe, they Avould, at all 
times, be an object of di-ead ; the recoil 
of the surf, the rock -bound coast, afford 
ing, for miles, no place of refuge, — tihf 



NOTES. 



487 



lowering sky, the rising winrl, — all these 
would excite his apprehension, and induce 
him to ply a vigorous oar until the dreaded 
wall was passed. But in the Pictured 
Rocks there are two features wliich com- 
municate to the scenery a wonderful and 
almost unique character. These are, first, 
the curious manner in which the clifis have 
been excavated and worn away by the ac- 
tion of the lake, which, for centuries, has 
dashed an ocean-like surf against their 
base; and, second, the equally curious 
manner in which large portions of the sur- 
face have been colored by bands of bril- 
liant hues. 

" It is from the latter circumstance that 
the name, by which these cliffs are known 
to the American traveller, is derived ; while 
that applied to them by tlie French voya- 
geurs ( ' Les Portails ' ) is derived from the 
former, and by far the most striking pecu- 
liarity. 

"The term Pictitred Rocks has heen in 
use for a great length of time; but when it 
was first applied, Ave have been unable to 
discover. It would seem that the first trav- 
ellers were more impressed with tlie novel 
and striking distribution of colors on the 
surface than with the astonishing variety 
of form into which the clifts themselves 
have been worn 

"Our voyageurs had many legends to 
relate of the pranks of the Menni-hojou in 
these caverns, and, in answer to our inqui- 
ries, seemed disposed to fabricate stories, 
without end, of the achievements of this 
Indian deity." 

Page 189. Toward the sun his hands 
were lifted. 

In this manner, and with such Galuta- 
tions, was Father Marquette received by 
the Illinois. See his Voyages et Decou- 
vertes, Section V. 

Page 212. 

That of our vices roe can frame 
A ladder. 
The words of St. Augustine are, — "De 
vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia 
ipsa calcamus." 

Sermon III. De Ascensione. 

Page 212. xhe Phantom Shij). 

A detailed account of this "apparition 
of a Ship in the Air " is given by Cotton 
Mather in his Maf/nalia Christi, Book I. 
Ch. VI. It is contained in a letter from 
the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New 
Haven. To this account Mather adds 
these words : — 



" Reader, there being yet living so many 
credible gentlemen that were eyewitnesses 
of this wonderful thing, I venture to pub- 
lish it for a thing as imdoubted as 'tis 
wonderful." 

Prge 215. And the Emperor but a Ma- 
cho. 

Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. 
Golondrina is the feminine form of Golon- 
drino, a swallow, and also a cant name for 
a deserter. 

Page 217. Oliver Basselin. 

Oliver Basselin, the " Pere joyeux du 
Vaiixleville," flourished in the fifteenth 
century, and gave to his convivial songs 
the name of his native valleys, in which lie 
sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was 
afterwards corrupted into the modern Vau- 
deville. 

Page 218. Victor Galhmith. 

This poem is founded on fact. Victor 
Galbraith was a bugler in a company of 
volunteer cavalry, and was shot in Mexico 
for some breach of discipUne. It is a com- 
mon superstition among soldiers, that no 
balls will kill them unless their names are 
written on them. The old proverb says, 
" Every bullet has its billet." 

Page 219. / remember the sea-fight far 
away. 

This was the engagement between the 
Enterprise and Boxer, off the liarbor of 
Portland, in which botli captains were 
slain. They were buried side by side, in 
the cemetery on Mountjoy. 

Page 222. Santa Filomena. 

"At Pisa the church of San Francisco 
contains a chaj)el dedicated lately to Santa 
Filomena; over the altar is a pictiire, by 
Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beau- 
tiful, nymph-like figure, floating down 
from heaven, attended by two angels bear- 
ing the lily, palm, and javelin, and be- 
neath, la the foregrounci, the sick and 
maimed, who are healed by her interces- 
sion." — Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and Le- 
gendary Art, II. 298. 

Page 408. The Children''s Crusade. 

"The Children's Crusade " was left un- 
finished by Mr. Longfellow. It is founded 
upon an event which occurred in the year 
1212. An arm}- of twenty thousand chil- 
dren, mostly boys, under the lead of a boy 
of ten years, named Nicolas, set out from 



488 



NOTES. 



Cologne for the Holy Land. When they 
reached Genoa only seven thousand re- 
mained. There, as the sea did not divide 
to allow them to march dry-shod to the 



East, they broke up Some got as far a^ 
Rome; two ship-loads sailed from Pisa 
and were not heard of again; the rest 
straggled back to Germany. 






INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



A BLIND man is a poor man, and poor a blind 

man is, 94. 
A fleet with flags arrayed, 37G, 
After so long an absence, 229. 
A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks, 229. 
A handful of red sand, from the hot clime, 130. 
Ah, how short are the days! How soon the 

night overtakes iis, 299. 
Ah, Love, G4. 
Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years, 

394. 
Ah ! thou moon that shinest, 64. 
Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me, 126. 
A little bird in the air, 258. 
Allah gives light in darkness, 392. 
All are architects of Fate, 130. 
All are sleeping, weary heart, 58. 
All day has the battle raged, 262. 
All houses wherein men have lived and died, 

214. 
All the old gods are dead, 254. 
Am I a king, that I should call my own, 395. 
A mill-stone and the human heart are driven 

ever round, 94. 
A mist was driving down the British Channel, 

213. 
Among the many lives that I have known, 381. 
An angel with a radiant face, 339. 
And King Olaf heard the cry, 247. 
And now, behold ! as at the approach of morn- 
ing, 17. 
And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing, 383. 
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 92. 
An old man in a lodge within a park, 365. 
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 380. 
As a pale phantom with a lamp, 409. 
A soldier of the Union mustered out, 367. 
As one who long hath fled with panting breath, 

414. 
As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 121. 
As the birds come in the Spring, 401. 
As treasures that men seek, 412. 
As unto the bow the cord is, 162. 
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 226. 
At Atri, in Abruzzo, a small town, 273. 
At Drontheim, Olaf the King, 255. 
At La Chaudeaii — 't is long since then, 412. 
At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 280. 
At the foot of the mountain height, 135. 
A vision as of crowded city streets, 3G5. 
Awake ! arise ! the hour is late, 410. 
A wind came up out of the sea, 223. 
A youth, light-hearted and content, 37. 

Baron Castine, of St. Castine, 288. 
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 317. 



Beautiful valley ! through whose verdant 

meads, 360. 
Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, 402. 
Behold ! a giant am I, 400. 
Bell ! thou soundest men-ily, 23. 
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 41. 
Between the dark and the daylight, 225. 
Beware ! tlie Israelite of old, who tore, 44. 
Black are the moors before Kazan, 337. 
Black shallows fall, 131. 
Blind Bartimeus at tlie gates, 38. 
Build me straight, O worthy Master, 122. 
Burn, O evening lieartli, and waken, 318. 
By his evening fire the artist, 132. 
By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 189. 

Can it be the sun descending, 167. 

Centuries old are the mountains, 348. 

Christ to the young man said : Yet one thing 

more, 135. 
Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 

17. 
Come from thy caverns dark and deep, 349. 
Come, O death, so silent flying, 230. 
Come, old friend ! sit down and listen, 89. 
Come to me, O ye children, 224. 

Dark is the morning with mist ; in the narrow 

mouth of the harbor, 398. • 
Dead he lay among his books, 394. 
Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knet- . 

82. 
Dost thou see on the rampart's height, 379. 
Dowered with all celestial gifts, 342. 
Down from yon distant mountain height, 337. 
Downward through the evening twilight, 

146. 

Each heart has its haunted chamber, 228. 
Even as the Blessed, at the final summons, 19. 
Evermore a sound shall be, 346. 
Every flutter of the wing, 346. 
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 230. 

Far and wide among the nations, 182. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim, 39. 

Flooded by rain and snow, 348. 

Flow on, sweet river ! like his verse, 409. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing, 93. 

For tliee was a house built, 20. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent 

of purple and scarlet, 209. 
Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 157. 
Four by the clock ! and yet not day, 408 
Four limpid lakes, — four Naiades, 409. 
From the outskirts of the town, 229. 



490 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



From this high portal, where upsprings, 390. 
Full of wrath was Hiawatlia, 178. 

Gaddi mi fece ; 11 Ponte Vecchio sono, 368. 

Garlands upon his grave, 358. 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 19. 

Gently swaying to and fro, 3iG. 

Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree, 156. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, chief of the 

mighty Onialias, 85. 
Glove of black in white hand bare, 231. 
God sent In's Singers upon earth, 134. 
Good niglit ! good night, beloved, ()3. 
Guarding the mountains around, 348. 

Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled, 286. 

Half of my lite is gone, and I have let, 40. 

Haste and hide thee, 347. 

Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 23. 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 231. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old, 225. 

He is dead, tlie beautiful youth, 321. 

He is gone to the desert land ! 33(3. 

Here in a little rustic hermitage, 384. 

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died, 380. 

High on their turreted cliffs, 348. 

Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 144. 

How beautiful is the rain, 81. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day, 319. 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! 396. 

How I sta/ted up in the night, in the night, 340. 

How many lives, made beautilul and sweet, 321. 

How much of my young heart, O Spain, 373. 

How strange it seems ! These Hebrews in their 

graves, 216. 
How strange the sculptures that adorn these 

towers, 322. 
How the Titan, the defiant, 344. 
How they so softly rest, 22. 

I am poor and old and blind, 362. 

I am the God Thor, 246. 

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 322. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound 
not well in strangers' ears, 94. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 74. 

I have a vague remembrance, 229. 

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, 5. 

1 hear along our street, 140. 

I heard a brooklet gushing, 22. 

I heard a voice, that cried, 133. 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day, 319. 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night, 2. 

I know a maiden fair to see, 23. 

Hay upon the headland-height, and listened, 
317. 

I leave you,, ye cold mountain chains, 391. 

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze, 322. 

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, 
37. 

In Attica thy birthplace should have been, 364. 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 216. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp, 42. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 80. 

In his lodge beside a river, 186. 

In Mather's Magnalia Christi, 212. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 43. 

In St. Luke's Gospel we are told, 399. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are com- 
bined, 94. 

In that building, long and low, 220. 

In that desolate land and lone, 375. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 76. 



In the convent of Drontheim, 262. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand, 264. 

In the long, sleepless watches of the night, 91. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 

old and brown, 77. 
In the old churchyard of his native town, 401. 
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land 

of the Pilgrims, 191. 
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 

meadow-lands, 79. 
In the Valley of the Vire, 217. 
In the village chui-chyard she lies, 214. 
In the workshop of Hephaestus, 341. 
In those days said Hiawatha, 172. 
In those days the Evil Spirits, 174. 
Into the city of Kambalu, 275. 
Into the darkness and the hush of night, 401. 
Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and 

bewildered, 198. 
Into the Silent Land, 24. 

I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold, 365. 
I said unto myself, if I were dead, 367. 
I saw, as in a dream sublime, 84. 
I saw the long line of the vacr.nt shore, 367. 
I see amid the fields of Ayr, 397. 
I shot an arrow into the air, 90. 
Is it so far from thee, 395. 
I stand again on the familiar shore, 364. 
I Sl and beneath the tree, whose branches shade, 

384. 
I stood on the bridge at midnight, 85. 
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch, 

8. 
Italy ! Italy ! thou who 'rt doomed to wear, 

339. 
I thought this Pen would arise, 396. 
It is autinnn ; not witiiout, 413. 
It is the Harvest Moon ! On gilded vanes, 382. 
I trust that somewhere and somehow, 277. 
It was Einar Tamberskelver, 261. 
It was fifty years ago, 224. 
It was Sir Christoplier Gardiner, 314. 
It was the schooner Hesperus, 27. 
It was the season, when through all the land, 

268. 

Janus am I ; oldest of potentates, 403. 
Joy and Temperance and Repose, 93. 
Just above yon sandy bar, 126. 
Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists up- 
rose from the meadows, 200. 

King Christian stood by the lofty mast, 21. 
King Solomon, befox'e his palace gate, 293. 

Labor with what zeal we will, 227. 

Lady, how can it chance — yet this we see, 393. 

Laugh of the mountain !— lyre of bird and 

tree! 17. 
Leafless are the trees ; their purple branches. 

220. 
Let him who will, by force or fraud innate, 413. 
Let nothing disturb thee, 340. 
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines, 

400. 
Listen, my children, and you shall hear, 235. 
Little sweet wine of Jurangon, 412. 
Live I, so live I, 94. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 91. 
Longing already to search in and round, 18. 
Lord, what am'l, that, with unceasing care, 16k 
Loud he sang the psalm of David, 42. 
Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 70. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



491 



Loud the angry wind was wailing, 254. 

Loudly the sailors clieered, 259. 

Lull me to sleep, ye wiuds, wliose fitful sound, 

3G7. 
Lutheran, Popish, Calviuistic, all these creeds 

and doctrines three, 94. 

Maiden ! vvitla tlie meek, browTi eyes, 39. 

Man-lilie is it to fall into sin, 93. 

Meanwhile tlie stalwart Miles Staudish was 
marching steadilj' northward, 205. 

Month after month passed away, and in Au- 
tumn the ships of the merchants, 207. 

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 377. 

Never shall souls like these, 351. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture, 183. 

Nine sisters, bea ititul in form and face, 381. 

Northward over Drontheim, 258. 

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 359. 

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's throne, 
341. 

Nothing that is shall perish utterly, 415. 

Nothing the <,reatest artist can conceive, 392. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurry- 
ing pen of the stripling, 193. 

Not without fire can any workman mould, 392. 

Now from all King Olaf's farms, 249. 

Nowhere such a devious stream, 363. 

Now the zepliyrs diminish the cold, and the 
year being ended, 389. 

O Caesar, we who are about to die, 354. 

curfew of the setting sun ! O bells of Lynn, 
320. 

O'er all the hill-tops, 340. 

Of E lenhall, the youthful Lord, 28. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted, 211. 

Often I think of the beautiful town, 219. 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 322. 

Oft I remember those whom I have known, 414. 

O gift of God ! O perfect day, 227. 

hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faith- 
ful are thy branches, 92. 

Oh, give me back the days when loose and free, 
392. 

Oh let the soul her slumbers break, 11. 

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me, 384. 

Oh, the long and weary Winter, 185. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 251. 

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 294. 

O little feet ! that such long years, 228. 

O Lord ! who seest, from yon starry height, 17. 

O lovely river of Yvette, 376. 

Once into a quiet village, 133. 

Once more, once more, Inarimd, 374. 

Once on a time, some centuries ago, 304. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 215. 

Once upon Iceland's solitary strand, 385. 

One Autnmn night, in Sudbury town, 232. 

One day, Haroun Al Rischid read, 378. 

One hundred years ago, and something more, 
283. 

One summer morning, when the sun was hot, 
237. 

On King Olaf's bridal night, 252. 

On St. Bavon's tower, commanding, 376, 

On sunny slope and bec^hen swell, 10. 

On the cross the dying Saviour, 93 

On the gray sea-sands, 260. 

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 37& 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 142. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 159. 



On the top of a mountain I stand, 70. 

O precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped, 134. 

O River of Yesterday, w ith current swift, 383. 

O star of morning and of lioerty, 323. 

O sweet illusions of Song, 228. 

Othere, the old sea-captain, 222. 

Out of childhood into manhood, 149. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 227. 

O weathercock on the vilhige spire, 399. 

ye dead Poets, who are living still, 381. 

Padre Francisco, 50. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The 
church of the village, 29. 

Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Is- 
lands, 409. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 1. 

Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with mine, 
385. 

Quand les astres de Noel, 323. 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, 
248. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read, 242. 
River ! that in silence windest, 38. 
River, that stealest with such silent pace, 364. 
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, 243. 

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight, 414. 
Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay, 257. 
Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 212. 
St. B ^tolph's Town ! Hither across the plains, 

3S3. 
See, the fire is sinking low, 320. 
She dwells by Great Kenliawa's side, 42. 
Shepherd ! who with thine amorous, sylvan 

song, 16. 
Short of stature, large of limb, 253. 
Should any one there in Rome remember Ovid, 

the exile, 387. 
Should you ask me, whence these stories, 141. 
Simon Danz has come home again, 373. 
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 170. 
Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 29. 
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, 408. 
Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round, 

383. 
Solemnly, mournfully, 94. 
Some day, some day, 230. 

Something the heart must have to clieris.!n, 391 . 
Somewhat back from the village street, 89. 
So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on 

his errand, 195. 
Southward with fleet of ice, 127. 
Spake full v-ell, in language quaint nnd olden, 4. 
Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest, 25. 
Stars of the summer night, 47. 
Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 379. 
Still through Egypt's desert places, 402. 
Strike the sails ! King Olaf said, 260. 
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, 312. 
Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives. 

380. 
Sweet babe ! true portrait of tliy fatlier's face. 

20. 
Sweet chimes ! that in the loneliness of night, 

408. 
Sweet faces, that from pictured casements lean, 

384. 
Sweet the memory is to me, 361. 

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 368- 



492 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Take them, O Death ! and bear away, 135. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 2, 

The battle is fought and won, 309. 

The brooklet came from the mountain, 230. 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 351). 

The course of my long life hath reached at last, 

393. 
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary, 37. 
The day is done, and the darkness, 87. 
The day is ending, 87. 

The doors are all wide open ; at the gate, 365. 
The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 250. 
The holiest of all holidays are those, 385. 
Tlie lights are out, and gone are all the guests, 

352. 
The night is come, but not too soon, 3. 
The nuns in the cloister, G4. 
The old house by the lindens, 132. 
The pages of thy book I read, 41. 
The panting City cried to tlie Sea, 407. 
There is a quiet spirit in tliese woods, 9. 
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 3. 
There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

129. 
There sat one day in quiet, 21. 
The rising moon has hid the stars, 3G. 
The rivers rush into the sea, 22. 
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 128. 
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, 3G6. 
The sea hath its pearls, 93. 
These are the Voices Three, 349. 
These words the poet heard in Paradise, 408. 
The shades of night were falling fast, 40. 
The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 43. 
The summer sun is sinking low, 407. 
The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 37. 
The sun is set ; and in his latest beams, 3G6. 
The tide rises, tlie tide falls, 400. 
The twilight is sad and cloud}', 127. 
The young Endymion sleeps Endymion s sieep, 

3GG. 
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 78. 
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring 

pines and the hemlocks, 95. 
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 78. 
This song of mine, 221. 
Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me, 248. 
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 25G. 
Thou ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves are 

loud, 381. 
Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, 391. 
Thou comest, Autnmn, heralded by the rain, 91. 
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they 

grind exceeding small, 94. 
Thou miglity Prince of Clnirch and State, 339. 
Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower, 382. 
Thou that from the heavens art, 340. 
Three Kings came riding from far away, 378. 
Three Silences there are : the first of speech, 

382. 
Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the 

shore of the ocean, 203. 
Thus sang the Potter at his task, 368. 
'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep, 

321. 
Tityrua, thou in the shade of a spreading beech- 
tree reclining, 386. 
To-day from the Aurora's bosom, 408. 
Torrent of light and river of the air, 3G6. 



Turn, turn, my wheel ! Turn round and round, 

368. 
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of 

gloom, 91. 
'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 24. 
Two angels, one of Life and one of Deatli, 215. 
Two good friends had Hiawatha, 154. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 36. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 226. 

Under the walls of Monterey, 218. 

Until we meet again ! That is the meaning 

405. 
Up soared the lark into the air, 362. 

Viswamitra the Magician, 378. 
Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 88. 

"Warm and still is the summer night, 372. 

Welcome, ray old friend, 88. 

Welcome, O Stork ! that dost wing, 338. 

We sat witliin the farm-house old, 129. 

What an image of peace and rest, 398. 

What is this I read in history, 406. 

What phantom is this that appears, 397. 

What say the Bells of San Bias, 411. 

What should be read of him cannot be said, 393. 

What the Immortals, 346. 

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, 

295. 
When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle 

but a torcli's fire, 94. 
When descends on the Atlantic, 86. 
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 222. 
When I compare, 413. 
When I remember them, those friends of mine, 

3G4. 
When Mazarvan the Magician, 229. 
When the dying flame of day, 8. 
When the hours of Day are numbered, 4. 
When the prime mover of my many sighs, 393. 
When the summer fields are mown, 231. 
When the warm svni, that brings, 6. 
When winter winds are piercing chill, 7. 
Where are the Poets, unto whom belong, 414. 
Whereunto is money good, 93. 
Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and 

comfort it bespoke, 94. 
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest, 

381. 
Whither, thou turbid wave, 22. 
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 405. 
Will ever the dear days come back again, 412. 
Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal ? 

338. 
With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, 394. 
With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, 

322. 
With what a glory comes and goes the year, 7. 
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 132. 
Worn with speed is my good steed, 75. 

Ye sentinels of sleep, 349. 

Yes, the moment shall decide, 350. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 5. 

Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, 383. 

Ye voices, that arose, 25. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha, 151. 

Vou shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 164, 17& 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the work, those in 
iower-case are single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Aftermath, 231. 

Afternoon in February, 87. 

Allah, 392. 

Amalfi, 361. 

Angel and the Child, The, 339. 

Annie of Tharaw, 92. 

April Day^ An, 6 

Arrow and the Song, The, 90. 

Arsenal at Springfield, The, 78 

Artist, The, 392. 

At La Chaudeau, 412. 

Auf Wiedersehen, 405. 

Autumn, 7, 91. 

Autumn Within, 413. 

Azrael, 293. 

Ballad of Carmilhan, The, 230. 

Ballad of the French Fleet, A, 376. 

Ballads and other Poems, 25. 

Baron of St Castine, The, 283- 

Barreges, 391. 

Bayard Taylor, 394. 

Beatrice, 19. 

Becalmed, 402. 

Beleaguered City, The, 5. 

Belfry of Bruges and other Poems, The, 

76. 
Belfry of Bruges, The, 77 
Belisarius, 362. 
Bell of Atri, The, 273. 
Bells of Lynn, The, 320. 
Bells of San Bias, The, 411, 
Beware, 23. 

Bird and the Ship, The, 22. 
Birds of Killingworth, The, 268. 
Birds of Passage, 131. 
Birds of Passage. 

Flight the First, 211. 

Flight the Second, 225. 

Flight the Third, 228. 

Flight the Fourth, 358. 

Flight the Fifth, 372. 
Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord, 264. 
Black Knight, The, 24. 
Blessing the Cornfields, 170. 
Blind Bartimeus, 38. 
Blind Girl of Castel Cuille, 135. 
Book of Sonnets, A, 364. 

Part Second, 380. 



Boy and the Brook, The, 337. 

Bridge, The, 85. 

Bridge of Cloud, The, 318. 



Broken Oar, The, 385. 

Brook, The, 17. 

Brook and the Wave, The, 230. 

Builders, The, 130. 

Building of the Long Serpent, The, 256. 

Building of the Ship, The, 122. 

Burial of the Minnisink, The, 10. 

Burial of the Poet, The (Richard Henry OaJlfiX 

401. 
By the Fireside, 129. 
By the Seaside, 122. 

Cadenabbia, 359. • 

Canzone, 394. 

Carillon, 76. 

Castle-Builder, The, 229. 

Castle by the Sea, The, 23. 

Castles in Spain, 373. 

Catawba Wine, 221. 

Celestial Pilot, The, 17. 

Challenge, The, 229. 

Challenge of Thor, The, 246. 

Chamber over the Gate, The, 396. 

Changed, 229. 

Charlemagne, 294. 

Charles Sumner, 358. 

Chaucer, 365. 

Child Asleep, The, 20. 

Children, 224. 

Children of the Lord's Supper, This, 29. 

Children's Crusade, The, 406. 

Children's Hour, The, 225. 

Chimes, 408. 

Christmas Bells, 319. 

Christmas Carol, A, 140. 

Chrysaor, 126. 

City and the Sea, The, 407. 

Cobbler of Ilagenau, The, 277. 

Consolation, 338. 

Coplas de Manrique, 11. 

Courtship of Miles Standish, The, 19L 

Crew of the Long Serpent, The, 257. 

Cross of Snow, The, 91. 

Cumberland, The, 226. 

Curfew, 94. 

Dante, 91, 393. 
Day is Done, The, 87. 
Dav of Sunshine, 227 
Daybreak, 223. 

Daylight and Moonlight, 216. 
Dead, The, 22. 
I Death of Kwasind, The, 182. 



»^ 



"v 



494 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Decoration Day, 408. 

Detlicatiou to the Seaside and the Fireside, 121. 

Dedicariou to Ultima Thule, 394. 

Delia, 3SU. 

Descent of the Muse.'^, The, 38? 

Discoverer of tlie North Cape, The, 222. 

Divina Lommedia, 322. 

Drinking Song, 89. 

Dutch i^icture, A, 373. 

Sarlier Poems, 6. 

Einar Tamberskelyer, 261. 

Elected Knight, The, 29. 

Elegiac, 398. 

Elegiac Verse, 409. 

Eliot, Oak, 3S1. 

Elizabeth, 299. 

Emma and Eginhard, 295. 

Emperors Bird's Nest, The, 215. 

Emperor's Glove, 'Ihe, 376. 

Enceladus, 226. 

Endymiun, 36. 

Epimetheus, 231. 

EVA.NGELi.xi:, 95. 

Evening Star, The, 91. 

Excelsior, 4U. 

Falcoln of &er Federigo, 237. 

Famine, The, 185. 

Fata Morgana, 228. 

Fiftieth liirthday of Agassiz, 224. 

Finales to Wayside Inn, 271, 291, 316. 

Fire, 392. 

Fire of Drift-^S'ood, The, 129. 

Flower-De-Luoe, 317. 

Flo\ver-de-Luce, 317. 

Flowers, 4. 

Folk Songs, 399. 

Footsteps of Angels, 4. 

Forsaken, 391. 

Four bv the Clock, 408. 

Four Ltikes of Madison, The, 409. 

Four Princesses at Uilna, 384. 

Four \Yinds, The, 144. 

Fragment, A, 410. 

From mv Arm-Chnir, 395. 

From the French, 412. 

From the Spani.>h Cancioneros, 230. 

Fugitive, The, 336. 

Galaxy, The, 366. 
Caspar Becerra, 132. 
Ghosts, The, 183. 
Giotto's Tower, 321. 
Gleam of Sunshine, A, 78. 
Goblet of Life, The, 39. 
God's-Acrp, 37. 
Golden Milestone, The, 220. 
Good Part, The, 42. 
Good Shepherd, The. 16. 
(^rave. The, 20. 
Gudrun, 252. 

Handful of Transl.vtions, A, 336 
Hanging op the Crane, The, 352. 
Happiest Land, The, 21. 
Haroun al Rischid, 378. 
Harvest Moon, The, 382. 
Haunted Chamber, The, 228 
Haunted Houses, 214. 
Hawthorne, 319. 
Helen of Tyre, 897. 



Hemlock-Tree, The, 92. 
Hermes Trisniegistus, 402. 
Herons of Elmwood, The, 372. 
Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis, 149. 
Hiawatha and the Pearl- Feather, 169. 
Hiawatha's Childhood, 146. 
Hiawatha's Departure, 189. 
Hiawatha's Fasting, 151. 
Hiawatha's Fishing, 157. 
Hiawatha s Friends, 154. 
Hiawatha';^ Lamentation, 174. 
Hiawatha's Sailing, 156. 
Hiawatha's Wedding Feast, 164. 
Hiawatha's Wooing, 162. 
Holidays, 385. 

Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis, The, 17S 
Hymn, 135. 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, 8- 
Hymn to the Night, 2. 

II Ponte Vecchio Di Firenze, 368. 

Image of God, The, 17. 

In the Churchyard at Cambridge, 214 

In the Churchyard at Tarry town, 380. 

In the Harbor, 4U2. 

Interludes to the Wayside Inn, 237, 241, 243, 

246, 263, 267, 275, 277, 2;9, 283. 286, 287, 2£*2 

295, 29S, 3U4, 309, 311, 313. 
Introduction to the Song of Hiawatha, 141. 
Iron Beard, 251. 
Iron Pen, The, 396. 
It is not always May, 37. 

Jewish Cemetery at Newport, 216 
John Alden, 198. 
Judas MACCAB.ffius, 324. 
Jugurtha, 396. 

Kambalu, 275. 

Keats, 366. 

Keramos, 368. 

Killed at the Ford, 321. 

King Christian, 21. 

King Olaf and Earl Sigvald, 260. 

King Olaf's Christmas, 255. 

King Olaf's Death-Drink, 262. 

King Olaf's Return, 247. 

King Olafs War-Horns, 260. 

King Robert of Sicily, 243. 

King Svend of the Forked Beard, 259. 

King Trisanku, 378. 

KingWitlafflDrinking-Horn, 132. 

Ladder of St. Augustine, The, 212 
Lady Went worth, 283. 
Landlord's Tales, The, 235, 314. 
Leap of Roushan Beg, The, 377. 
Legend Beautiful, The, 286. 
Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi, The, 242. 
Legend of the Crossbill, The, 93. 
L'Envoi, 25. 
L'Envoi, 401, 414. 
Light of Stars, The, 3, 
Lighthou.se, The, 128. 
Little Bird in the Air, The, 258. 
Loss and Gain, 413. 
Love and Friendship, 193. 
Lover's Errand, The, 195. 
Luck of Edenhall, The, 28. 

Mad River, 405. 

Maiden and VVeathercock, 899. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



495 



Maidenhood, 39. 

March of Miles Standish, The, 205. 

Masque of Pandora, The, .341. 

Meeting, The, 229. 

Memories, 414. 

Mezzo Cammin, 40. 

Michael Angelo, 415. 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year, 5. 

Miles Standish, 191. 

Milton, 365. 

Miscellaneous, 36, 78. 

Monk of Casal-Maggiore, The, 304. 

Monte Cassino, 36U. 

Moods, 384. 

Moonlight, 409. 

MoRiTURi Salutamus, 354. 

Mother's Ghost, The, 312. 

Musician's Tales, The, 246, 280, 312. 

My Books, 414. 

My Cathedral, 400. 

My Lost Youth, 219. 

Nameless Grave, A, 367. 
Native Laud, The, 17. 
Nature, 380. 
Night, 401. 
Noel, o23. 

Norman Baron, The, 80. 
Nun of Nidaros, The, 262. 
Nuremberg, 79. 

Occultation of Orion, The, 84, 

Old Age, 393. 

Old Bridge at Florence, The, 368. 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 89. 

Old St. David's at Radnor, 398. 

Oliver Basselin, 217. 

On the Terrace of the Aigalades, 390. 

Open Window, The, 182. 

Ovid in Exile, 387. 

Palingenesis, 317 

Parker Cleaveland, 381. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis, 176. 

Paul Revere's Ride, 235. 

Peace-Pipe, The, 142. 

Pegasus in Pound, 1-33. 

Personal Poems, 413. 

Phantom Ship, The, 212. 

Picture-Writing, 172. 

Poems on Slavery, 41. 

Poet and his Songs, The, 401. 

Poetic Aphorisms. 93. 

Poet's Calendar, The, 403. 

Poet's Tales. The, 268, 283, 294. 

Poets, The, 381. 

Possibilities, 414. 

Prelude, 412. 

Preludes to Tales of a Wayside Inn, 232, 272, 

Prelude to Voices of the Night, 1. 
President Garfield, 408. 
PriscilJa, 2o3. 
Prometheus, 211. 
Psalm of Life, A, 2. 

Quadroon Girl, The, 43. 
Que^n Sigrid the Haughty, 248. 
Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks. 258 
Quiet Life, A, 413. ' 

Rain in Summer, 81. 
Rainy Day, The, 37. 



Raud the Strong, 254. 

Reaper and the Flowers, The, 3. 

Remorse, 340. 

Resignation, 129. 

Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face, The, 376. 

Rhyme of Sir Christopher, The, 314. 

Robert Burns, 397. 

Ropewalk, The, 220. 

Saga of King Olaf , The, 246. 

Sailing of the Mayflower, 200. 

St. John's, Cambi-idge, 384. 

Sand of the Desert in an Ilour-Glass, 130. 

Sandal phon, 225. 

Santa Filomena, 222. 

Santa Teresa's Book-Mark, 340. 

Scanderbeg, 309. 

Sea hath its Pearls, The, 93. 

Seaside and the Fireside, The, 121, 

Seaweed, 86. 

Secret of the Sea, The, 126. 

Sermon of St. Francis, The, 362. 

Seven Sonnets, 392. 

Shadow, A, 367. 

Shakespeare, 365. 

Sicilian Tales, The, 243, 273, 304. 

Siege of Kazan, The, 337. 

Sifting of Peter, The, 399, 

Singers, The, 134. 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert, 127. 

Skeleton in Armor, The, 25. 

Skerry of Shrieks, The, 249. 

Slave in the Dismal Swamp, The, la. 

Siisv? Singing at Midnight, The, 42. 

Slave's Dream, The, 41. 

Sleep, 367. 

Snow-Flakes, 227. 

Something left Undone, 227. 

Son of the Evening Star, The, 167. 

Song, 379. 
; Song of Hiawatha, The, 141. 
f Song of the Bell, The, 23. 
Song of the Silent Land, 24. 
Songo River, 303. 
Songs, 86. 
Sonnet, 134. 
Sonnets, 91, 400. 
Sonnets, A Book of, 364. 
Sound of the Sea, The, 366. 
Spanish Jew's Tales. The, 242, 275, 293, 309, 
Spanish Student, The, 44. 
Spinning- Wheel, The, 207. 
Spirit of Poetry, The, 9. 
Spring, 19. v 

Statue over the'Uathedral Door, The, 93. 
Student's Tales, The, 237, 277, 288, 295. 
Summer Day by the Sea, A, 366. 
Sundown, 407. 
Sunrise on the Hills, 8, 
Suspiria, 135. 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Part First, 232. 

Part Second, 272. 

Part Third, 292. 
Tegn^r's Drapa, 133. 
Terrestial Paradise, The, 18. 
Thangbrand the Priest, 253. 
Theologian's Tales, 264, 286, 299. 
The Tide rises, the Tide falls, 400. 
Thora of Rimol, 248. 
Three Friends of Mine, 364. 



i96 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Three Kings, The, 378. 

Three Silences of Molinos, The, 382, 

Tides, The, 367. 

To a Child, 82. 

To an Old Danish Song-Book, 88. 

To Cardinal Richelieu, 339. 

To Italy, 339 

To my Brooklet, 391. 

To the Avon, 409. 

To the Driving Cloud, 85. 

To the River Charles, 38. 

To the River Rhone, 382. 

To the River Yvette, 376. 

To the Stork, 338. 

To William E. Channing, 41. 

To-morrow, 16, 321. 

To Vittoria Colonna, 393. 

TorquemadiB264. 

TRANSLATioiTS^ll, 92, 386, 412 

Travels by the Fireside, 359. 

Twilight, 127. 

Two Angels, The, 215. 

Two Locks of Hair, The, 37. 

Two Rivers, The, 383. 

Ultima Thule, 394. 
Fenice, 381. 

Victor and Vanquished, 414. 
''iotor Galbraith, 218. 



Village Blacksmith, The, 36. 
Virgil's First Eclogue, 386. 
Vittoria Colonna, 374. 
Voices op the Night. 1. 
Vox Populi, 229. 

Walter von der Vogehveid, 88. 

AVanderer"s Night-Songs, 340 

Wapentake, 385. 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The, 218. 

Warning, The, 44. 

Wave, The, 22. 

Wayside Inn, The, 232. 

Weariness, 228. 

Wedding- Day, The, 209. 

AVhite Czar, The, 379. 

White Mans Foot, The, 186. 

Whither, 22. 

\Vindmill, The, 400. 

Wind over the Chimney, The, 320. 

Wine of Juranfon, The, 412. 

Witnesses, The, 43. 

Woods in ^^inter, 7. 

Woodstock Park, 384. 

Wraith in the Mist, A, 378. 

Wraith of Odin, The, 250. 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 27 

Youth and Age, a*^. 



rj^, /i^^ 



'^^' ^ Cp-^ 



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